Imagine

Ha!

Ha! Ha!!

And...

Ha! Ha!! Ha!!!

Good morning, dear reader and welcome to the catch-up edition of The morbid adventures of Minge. Unlike Captain Oates, I've returned, although I was some time.

I must say, though, at this point. I'm quite uncomfortable with the grammar there. Captain Oates' famous statement, "I may be some time," has always bothered me. How can a person be time? Was the captain hinting at something, that he was/is some kind of deity? Or maybe a well-loved time traveller with a penchant for Earth and Britain?

My recent video blogging adventures were a fun exercise and I really enjoyed doing it, as did Ian. He was the mind behind the camera; the director, editor and interviewer. One of the questions put to me came from David. He asked me to name my favourite Asian dish and suggested I should be filmed while cooking it. As ever, I'm keen to oblige. You can see the results, my love, in the previous three entries, here, here and here.

Oh, and for my anonymous reader who requested it, here's Mrs McGinty's recipe for Cinder Toffee:

You will need

• 200g caster sugar
• 100g golden syrup
• 40g goats' butter
• 1 tablespoon water
• 1 tablespoon vanilla extract
• 1 teaspoon cider vinegar
• 1 teaspoon bicarbonate of soda

Method

1. Line a small baking tray (I use an 8" sandwich tin) with parchment paper.
2. Place all the ingredients apart from the vinegar and bicarbonate of soda into a heavy bottomed pan. Put on a medium heat and stir until the sugar has dissolved.
3. Bring to the boil and heat until a teaspoon of the syrup becomes a soft ball when dropped into a cup of cold water (138°c on a sugar thermometer).
4. Remove from the heat and add the vinegar and bicarbonate of soda. Beat well and watch the toffee mixture foam up.
5. Pour into your prepared tray or tin.
6. After ten or so minutes, once the toffee has begun to set, score it with a sharp knife into portion sizes according to your personal taste.
7. After approximately twenty more minutes, break your cinder toffee along the lines and store in an air tight container where it will remain in good shape for up to ten days.

Experiment with the flavour by replacing the vanilla extract with other extracts such as almond, maple or similar. I've a mind, next time I make it, to replace the extract and the water with a double espresso! I've done quite a bit of travelling throughout the isle quite recently. Much of October seems to have been spent on the roads and rails of the United Kingdom.

The first part of the month took Ian and I to London. We stayed there with our fabulous friend Robin who was kind enough to put us up for a long weekend. Pictures of which can be seen here, my lamb. We went the whole hog and did all the things tourists do; a cruise on the Thames, a trip to Buckingham Palace, a wander around Trafalgar Square, took in the neon lights at Piccadilly Circus, explored some galleries, visited St Paul's Cathedral, toured Television Centre, saw some shows and so much more besides. The shows we saw were Les Misérables, Avenue Q and Wicked. I plan to blog about these, at length, later.

Before leaving the topic altogether though, I will say that all three musicals were absolutely fabulous, well produced and provocative. Human (and animal) relationships can be peculair. I'm left wondering if it's true that everyone's a little bit racist (more later), if wickedness is as black and white a situation as it's often painted and who would be the better king of France should the monarchy there be restored? Louis, Henri, Charles or Nicolas? Which man would you chosse, dear reader? Or do you feel a woman would do a better job?

I'm sure, really, that wickedness is indeed not so black and white. There are many shades of grey in the mix, as is proven by my late Father who died on 11th October. He might have been evil personified to my Mother, Mark (my brother) and I, though he obviously wasn't those things to his second wife or she'd have not been able to say these things. Having said that, she was and is able to lie (his family will NOT miss him - see here). Why she'd want to lie, now, though, I'm not sure. If he was cruel to her, she'd have no need to publish such a sickly-sweet goodbye. Perhaps, after meeting her, he'd become too old to fuck around with other women and pick fist-fights with his friends and relatives?

I was lucky and happy to be in Bournemouth for the week following Roy's death. My presence stopped my eldest brother from using my Mum's house as a hotel, accommodating his appearance at his Father's funeral. Cruel of him, I'm sure, to ask (and he did) my Mother for a bed for him and his son while in Bournemouth for the funeral. Does this man have a heart of stone? Like his Father, does he have no conscience? Did he really expect my Mum to give him somewhere to stay so that he could attend the funeral of the man who made her life a living hell? I'm sure there's irony there somewhere, though I don't care to look for or expose it.

I'm sure she was prepared to, but my presence but a bar in his way. He doesn't speak to me since I confronted him about opening personal correspondence between me and his son and questioning his motives in taking my Mother on foreign holidays.

I wondered if, even though we weren't attending the funeral, we'd be sad and melancholy on the day or open a bottle of champagne. As it was, I'm currently taking anti-biotics for yet another chest and sinus infection so champagne would have been off the menu. Come the 18th October, we'd kind of almost fogotten what was going on until people started turning up at home, wondering how my Mum was. The only person not to come or call on the telephone was my eldest brother, Ken.

We were neither happy nor sad about his death or funeral, though I will admit to being sad about him in general ever since hearing of his death.

As hinted at before, he wasn't utterly wicked. The movie made of his life would be littered with violence and abuse, both of the physical and emotional sort. However, there would be the odd happy scene. I remember him yodeling in the Alps, drawing with me at the kitchen table, showing me how to saw oak and taking me to a restaurant for the very first time at six or seven years of age.

I used to wonder and think that perhaps he wasn't so terrible after all, though I soon changed my mind when I saw the looks on the faces of the people in whom I was able to confide. Good people don't systematically abuse their families on more levels than I knew existed. Good people don't sleep with their wife's family. Good people don't serially cheat on their partners. Good people dont beat their children to a pulp.

He was an actor, too. On divorcing, friends of my parents couldn't believe such a couple could or would ever part.

"But Roy's such a great bloke..."

He could charm the birds out of the trees, buy gifts for his friends' children and be the life and soul of any party. Birds may have been charmed, but we were repulsed. Any Christmas presents, shoes or school uniforms were paid for by the money my Mother earned cleaning during the evenings. In my Mother's words, usual gatherings of my immediate family were given, "...the golden silence treatment..." by my Father.

"Silence!"

"Be quiet, I'm watching telly."

"Go outside and play and stop bothering me."

He's been a major topic of conversation for many years. I really wonder, now, how we'll fill those gaps in conversation. I'm sure, with things more cheerful.

He may have gone and this will do many of us some good, but what will not go are the memories. His snarling face. His awful temper. His fist. His flying kicks.

On some level, his wild behaviour was never as difficult for me to cope with as it was for Mum and to a certain extent, Mark. Apparently, he got worse as time went on. The violence and screaming was normal to me. For Mark, weekly beatings and slanging matches became a daily occurrence. For Mum, a lady who grew up in a home free from hostility and full of love and gay times, her married life must have been an absolute nightmare. Like a story from a soap opera which builds and builds over a few weeks, Mum's life descended into reasoned anarchy over thirty or so years; an anarchy which, however she's tried, she's been unable to recover from since the old man left us cold an penniless in 1981.

I'm still undecided if I'm happy or sad. I can't generalise, though, and find being black and white quite difficult. I suppose I feel grey. I have decided on two things, though. I shall write a memoir in two parts:

My Father and other monsters

and

I remember Mama

I plan on starting next week. Any tips will be gratefully received.

Bournemouth wasn't all doom and gloom, of course. The highlight was spending time with my Mum at and outwith the bingo, my wonderful niece (see evidence of that here, here, here and here), other family members and friends.

Following on from my evening watching Avenue Q, two conversations made me ponder more about the racism issue. Auntie Lil said that Britons are able to be so openly and unapologetically racist because we've never lost a war in modern times and that military superiority implies cultural superiority. No-one in Germany could get away with doing the Nazi salute or calling anyone a money-grabbing Jew. However, people in Britain are called Wogs, Spics, Yids, Pakis and Wops with no-one batting an eyelid.

With my Mother complaining about the number of Poles and East Europeans in the country, my American sister-in-law piped up with a reason why she doesn't want her daughter to learn Spanish. My sister-in-law is fabulous, though a little naive and easily led. She told me how her Father, a Methodist pastor had told her how copious amounts of Mexicans were flooding the United States of America with their extended families, taking from the state without putting anything into the economy and refusing to learn English. Strange for a man of God to have not heard of the story of the good Samaritan.

Always unresolved... I still imagine a world full of good people, though I wonder if it will only ever exist in my imagination. My Mother was grateful, I'm sure, for the home the UK gave her when the German army invaded her home island in 1940. Native Americans - did they complain about white settlers taking and not giving or not learning Adai, Coosan, Tunica or similar?

Will history always repeat itself? Until we learn from it?

You may say that I'm a dreamer (some say I am), but I'm not the only one.

Yesterday/today

I can't believe there's so little in the news today about the terrorist attacks of 11th September 2001. Next to nothing.

I watched a rerun of Fahrenheit 9/11 on television last night, there's a documentary on Channel 4 this evening about the World Trade Center and after a good dig, I found a story about 9/11 on the BBC news site.

Has the whole thing been forgotten already?

Perhaps it has. Perhaps the mess we've made in Iraq and the mess we're about to start with Iran are more important issues.

Ian and I went to Culross yesterday. It's a wee town over the water in Fife. More a villiage, actually, although Wikipedia describes it as a city.

I wouldn't say we were bored, we've never been that, but we did spend the morning wondering what we'd do in the afternoon. A wee surf of the internet and the National Trust for Scotland website was all we needed, throwing ideas at us left, right and centre.

The journey was quite short, certainly less than an hour, though not by much. My first port of call was the public toilet. I was desperate for a waz. But I couldn't go in! No! It was ghastly! Dark, stinking and wet. Instead, I did my business in the bushes, eyes darting all around the place to see if someone was coming. I hate doing a tiddle out in the open or, at least, not in a toilet. The reason? There's no way of washing my hands afterwards! So guess what came next? A picnic of sandwiches, Ryvita Minis and fruit! All finger food.

Still, at least I was putting bacteria from my own body back into my mouth and not germs from someone else.

Culross is a beautiful place, almost preserved in time. The only giveaways being the odd car and a bus stop. Being members of the NTS, we got in to Culross Palace for free. Not only that, we were entitled to a guided tour of the town, too (highlights: Town House, Captain's cottage and The Study)! Our escort was a wonderful and charming young lady who was a mine of historical knowledge. I commented to her that Culross is like a living outdoor museum. Indeed it is and I shall return to it as soon as I have someone here to whom I might show it off!

The palace was fully equipped with period furniture, fixtures and fittings and a functioning kitchen garden! And how enlightening that was! There were enormous thistles, herbs and vegetables growing rampant. Back inside the palace, we came upon a herbal remedy exhibition. One exhibit was advice on how to cure diarrhoea. With an egg. And the advice wasn't to eat it. Edna was shocked and made a note in the comments book.

We made our way to Fife over the Kincardine bridge. Our return home was made, firstly, in an Easterly direction and then south over the Forth road bridge. Before going home, we popped in to a Nissan Garage near Ikea in Midlothian and had a look at a peculiarly named vehicle. It was quite nice, actually. I was given the impression we'd get a lot of car for our money. We might buy it. Either that, the Honda Civic or an Audi A3.

Fear

As you may or may not know, dear reader, I've just come back to Edinburgh from an extended holiday to England and Ireland.  I must have been away around six weeks.

Six difficult weeks, it must be said.

Some of my earliest memories are of being afraid; of fearful situations.  I recall my brother telling me the funny man was on his way to get me.  That wasn't funny at all.  I recall trips to the toilet.  No relief was to be found there.  I was sure someone was on the stairs, watching me, watching me dart from the living room, across the hall to the bog.  I recall laying in bed at night, alone, unable to stand the fear anymore...  I'd creep down the stairs and sit by the living room door with the voices of adults for comfort.

I've always been afraid of being alone and of being got.  This fear, all too tangibly, has continued into my adult life.

A sickly child, ill health was a constant threat to my very existence.  Mother was very kind to me.  Without wrapping me up in cotton wool, she protected me from death and disaster.  Without explanation, I knew I was safe.  The sight of blood, however, mine or anyone else's, and I was in hysterics.

All those horrid fears; of threat and of solitude came to me like a fist to the face in the early 1990s when my work colleague and I were held up in an armed robbery at our place of work.

As an adult, I had to face things on my own.  I had to cope.  Unable to face these things, unable to cope, I fled from life itself and into my bedroom.  I did not come out, save for visits to the toilet and bathroom, for six months.

Slowly but surely, with the help of doctors, nurses and psychiatric specialists, I emerged from my bedroom.  Not really because I wanted to, no, but because my fear of letting down the medical staff and my Mother was greater than my fear of what might lie outside of my bedroom/stronghold.

However, regardless of the hows and whys, I did it and soon realised the outside world wasn't such a bad place after all.  My fears were based on something I'd suggested to myself rather than on anything real.  My fears were all about what might be, what could be.  Just like my funny man fear.  What he might do to me, what he might look like.  Just like my fear of someone watching me on the stairs and where they might take me if they caught me.

But aren't all fears like that?

What if?

Fear still plays a starring rôle in my life.  He's been a special guest star in The Minge Show since 1972.

Breathe.

Between then and now, fears have also been about self doubt and about a lack of explanation.  Being told I was daft and shouldn't worry have never been a cure for my fears.  I need proof that I'm daft and proof that my worries are groundless.  That's how I came out from my bedroom after six moths of self-imposed imprisonment.

From my Spring trip to Japan and through to my Summer trips to England and Ireland, my fears have been alive and well.  I've been coughing, without much of a break, since the beginning of this year.  Antibiotics have seen off chest and sinus infections, yet still the cough refuses to pack up and go home.

This week, I visited Dr Wendy here in Edinburgh.  I see her every so often for check-ups after the removal of the tumour from my tongue.  She knows of my ever present fear of the c word and understood my hints over the constant coughing.  She also knows about my fear of facing up to things, ever afraid that my thoughts could be confirmed as fact.

"See your GP," said Wendy.

So I did.

First of all, it must be noted that when I first saw the guy, a new doctor at the practice, I thought Alan was playing some kind of trick on me, impersonating my GP.  But no, the guy was either his doppelgänger or his long lost twin with an English accent.  As he called to me, with a wink, "Mr Tapping?" I nearly fell off of my chair.

What a wonderful man he was and put my fears to bed, I hope, once and for all.  And he certainly knew how to do that.  Not with a ruffle of my hair and a, "Don't be a silly lad," but with an explanation.

Apparently, after a chest infection and sinus infection quite close together, my sinuses are inflamed and inflamed sinuses tend to overproduce mucus.  That mucus finds itself on my chest, hence the coughing.  The wheezing is caused, not by an asthmatic lung or even a cancerous one, but by the constant coughing and the bronchioles tightening, then not relaxing.

I'm not to worry.

And spookily, I'm not.

For the first time in months, I'm able to spend moments alone without my mind wandering into the realms of pain, death and funerals.  I've actually read a passage from a book today.  Something I've been unable to do for some weeks.  This afternoon, after I've taken my ladies out for another walk, I plan on watching The Weakest Link.

I love this sense of freedom.

But still, I look back into the past and ponder my theories of fear and regret.

I'd love to be a person who can look back upon their life and say, hand on heart, "No regrets."  Sadly, I regret a lot of things, from ugly romantic relationships, fucked-up thoughts on how to keep a man, smoking and always wondering what people thought of me (and the tests I put them through to discover the answer).

I can't live a life of fear.  I can't.  It's horrible.  The depression that comes with it is like a lid on my kettle.  I want to whistle, sing and let all that steam out.  Crying, lying on the bed in a ball, pulling out my eyebrows - all things I want consigned to the past.  I'm doing my best.

I'm high maintenance, I'll admit that, and a needy person, though I won't ask.  I'm not ashamed of being needy.  I'm not ashamed of myself, though I am ashamed, on some level, of not asking for help.

But I do get help.  Sometimes it's a surprise, sometimes it's from the dependable people in my life.  My fears of being alone are, I think, at last allayed.

I'm still coughing, but I'm no longer afraid.

The Sunday Mallet

I came back (back, back, etc), dear reader, from my hiatus and state of limbo.

While away in England, Northern Ireland and Eire, I had much time to think.  More about that later, but first, thoughts about the matter at hand and what's to be done with an interactive Sunday. Holidays always seem to remind me of Mallett's Mallet, seemingly because I often find myself getting up earlier while away on holiday than I do at home.  As a boy, weekdays meant staying in bed as long as possible before getting up for school.  Weekends and school holidays meant getting up early to watch children's TV.

Wacaday was a wild part of my childhood and teenage years and it's with great reverence that I put my own spin on the show with The Sunday Mallet.  I did toy with the idea of Minge's Mallet, but narcissism can be oh so horrid.

So, how to play...  Much as we did with Fib Sunday, though this time there shall be no fibs, just simple rounds of word association.  Yes, The Sunday Mallet is a word association game.  No need for suggesting topics and so forth.  I shall presently come up with a word.  In the comments section, a player should provide the first word that pops into his or her mind.  The next player, on seeing said word, should provide the first word that they think of and so on.  Repeat, repeat, repeat.

So, the first ever word of The Sunday Mallet shall be jubilation.

Holiday

Juni-Août

3

Kamakura, Japan.  2006.  Those were the days!

Away

I like the word hiatus.  It smacks of science from the ancient world and reminds me of what many Greek and Roman men would do in their spare time without fear of anyone batting an eyelid.

And a hiatus, I'm about to take.

In the early hours of tomorrow morning, Phyllis and I shall drive down to Bournemouth.  I expect to stay there about a month and will, more than likely, be there for the birth of my first great niece or great nephew.  Exciting!  Nice to be a great uncle!  Even a great uncle!

Ian will stay with me for a day before returning home sans moi et nos chiennes.  In the middle of July, he'll visit me chez Maman for a weekend, then, towards the end of the month, come to collect me again, bring me home, perhaps for a night or two, before the four of us go on a seven day holiday to Ireland.

I'm so excited, I could vomit, dear reader.

In England, I plan on going to the beach, playing bingo, visiting old pals, seeing my family and having some quality time with Mumsy-wumsy. In Ireland, I plan on touring the whole fucking island and, hopefully, bumping into a few folks along the way.  On the itinerary so far: Dublin, Waterville, somewhere wee in County Galway and Belfast.

Je retournerai.

Jesus

Phyllis and I weren't alone on our all-Nippon holiday, you know, dear reader.  Oh, no!  We were accompanied by Jesus Christ, as given to me by my delightful American friend, Dame Krafty of Bitch.

Christ was a welcome companion and eager to see the pagan lands of the East.  He enjoyed his tour, just as The Buddha had previously enjoyed touring with us around Scotland.

While in Japan, Jesus Christ enjoyed bathing in a sento, drank milk, made tea and even performed miracles.  Yes.  He turned water into beer and steam into melon cream soda.  If that doesn't beat raising the dead, I don't know what does.

Leaving

We left Japan on 6th June 2007.  From the Park Hyatt, Tokyo, to Narita airport by limousine bus. How a bus has anything to do with a limousine, I don't know, but that's not for here.

I was very sad that morning, and being tired always exaggerates emotion.  Leaving is never a delicious experience and saying cheerio to Alan and Junya the previous evening made this one of the longest good-byes in history.  Painful and not at all nice.

As the bus pulled away from the hotel, I began thinking about all the things we'd seen and done in our short stay.  And the things we hadn't done: the fish market, an oxygen bar and a visit to an onsen.  Also, I was sad to have to leave Marie (my birthday gift from Dan and Masumi) behind at the hotel.  There would be no chance of me being able to take her on the aeroplane.  But I had a plan so that she might live.  I removed the cord from her neck and let her float up to the ceiling. Surely, the cleaners wouldn't look up. And the next inhabitants of room #4909 might adopt her.

More sad than leaving Marie, I was upset to the point of tearful at leaving Alan and Junya.  Even now, after this short time, they feel lost in the mists, not only of time, but of the Orient, like another realm, another planet, another reality.  Distance is a horrible thing.  Email, blogging and telephone calls don't make up for physical contact; a brush of ones hair, a hug, a kiss.  Or first hand vision of a beautiful smile.  They are lost.  For now.  But I do feel, honestly, someday I'll find them.

Leaving Japan was much easier than entering.  Were it not for the lack of cheering, I might have imagined they were glad to see the back of us.  On the passenger side, it was time to seek out a toilet, café/restaurant and shop - in that order.

Having tiddled, we sat and watched the Airbus A380 manoeuvre around the apron and then took our traditional yet untypical Japanese breakfast of coffee and cakes, this time, courtesy of Starbucks.  An area was set aside for the consumption of purchased goods, shared with other establishments.  I noticed a couple of menus.  Not exactly engrish, but delightful nonetheless, one asked me if vegetables were enough, another offered the dreaded curry doughnut which haunted me during 2006.

Breakfast over, we headed, with haste, to a shop selling electronics and watches.  Yes!  I was after a new watch.  Impressed with Alan's, I'd decided to bag a Japanese Fossil for myself, though had not seen any up until then.  Thankfully, all that changed in the shop and I purchased a fabulous timepiece for myself.  Every time I look at it, I'm reminded of my time in Japan, not only this year, but in 2006 and 2004.

On our way to the gate, we passed a couple of daft American women, asking a Japanese man for directions to their aeroplane and seemingly unaware of where they actually were, asked, "Do you know where we're at?"

I can be quite rude at times, hen, and, rather loudly, I tutted and commented on her poor grasp of grammar.

Where we're at?  At?

Lord, preserve us.

Our journey home was far from fabulous.  Lufthansa aeroplanes are scruffy and old.  Their cabin crew are at best, rude.  At worst, a bunch of humourless cunts.  The food is dreadful and the entertainment a disgrace.  We were cold, hungry and ignored.

Frankfurt airport is equally vile.  Dirty, scruffy, old and in dire need of a lick of paint and some smiles on the faces of the workers there.  I was keen to get away on our flight to London.

Luckily, our flight from London to Edinburgh was provided by British Airways.  How fabulous to travel with an airline with morals, who believe in new aeroplanes, cleanliness and the occasional smile!  And food, to boot!  Good food.  And copious amounts of booze!

So before long, we were back in Edinburgh, back in our wee house.  Japan, thousands of miles away.

TTFN

Our last evening in Japan was spent performing Karaoke.

Our day in Disneyland over, Ian and I made our way back to Shinjuku to meet up with our most delicious of friends, Alan and Junya. We were unusually early. In waiting, I was flattered to find the Japanese people passing by would stop to admire Ian in his Fantasia/Sorcerer's Apprentice headgear and me in my Minnie Mouse wedding veil. Of course, they hated to be caught looking. When I'd turn around to see them, heads turned, looking back at us, they'd bow their heads of cover their mouths and giggle in that cutesy way, the way only the Japanese people know. Of course, some were brave, would ask where we were from or say, "Cute!" By and large, though, they were shy, yet intrigued to see a fat Westerner in cartoon drag.

The Minnie Mouse gear came in very handy indeed. After meeting up with Alan and Junya, we headed off to a Karaoke place, taking an all you can eat and drink package with karaoke. I adored singing, favourites being a medley of West End Girls/So Excited (I Could Vomit), I Begin To Spin Around and Like A Virgin. Like A Virgin simply cannot and should not be sung without a wedding veil worn. Our waiter did his level best to ignore me singing that song to him when he came into our room with beer, sake and food, though he did leave with a smile on his face. Which was a picture. A better picture would have been the look on his Mother's face when he returned home after his shift. I can picture it now.

"Kon Ban Wah, Ma!"
"Hi, darlin'! How was your shift?"
"Well, you'll never believe it, but this big, fat Western Man dressed up in no small way like Minnie Mouse tried his seduction techniques on me by singing Like A Virgin."
"Have you been at the medicine cabinet again, son?"

Oh, to be a fly on the wall.

Ian's highlight, I am sure, was singing Hung Up. He seemed to really enjoy it. Alan amazed us by singing in Japanese and Junya amazed us with his strong, yet somehow delicate and fragile voice.

We had a blast. We really did. Such fun.

But then it was time to go. Alan and Junya came back to the hotel with us to pick up some Irn Bru and some cables we'd borrowed in order to recharge our electrical devices. After a very short stay, it was time to go in order that they caught their final train home.

A sad goodbye and a sad ending to the happiest of holidays.

I miss Alan and Junya more than I can express, all thanks to the limits of language. Needless to say, I love them dearly and look forward to seeing them soon, God willing.

Edo

The day before my birthday was spent in outragous style, beginning, as ever, with a fabulous breakfast of coffee et des gateaux! Our former haunt having a genuine lack of custard, we were in search of vanilla, eggs and cream. The end of our odyssey was a fabulous wee bakery right near the entrance to Shinjuku station. European style pastries, bread and cakes of so many varieties were available along with pizza slices, croque-monsieur and croque-madame.

Ian loves to indulge in a bit of croque from time to time, so took advantage of this opportunity. No dead pig can ever enter my mouth, but lots of custardy cakes can! Cake after cake, choc-full of custard, fruits, chocolate...! Heaven on a plate and all washed down with a most creamy cappuccino! The Japanese really know how to create good coffee!

I'm sure the staff in the bakery/coffee shop must have been muttering things like, "Fat, greedy pigs!" under their breath, though, to our faces, they were beyond helpful and polite. The other customers, all exclusively Japanese, sat down to beakfast with a small glass of water and a tiny bread roll. Lord above us! The penny's just dropped. Do you think we were in the midst of a POW camp rôle play group?

Before leaving for Japan, I'd actually hoped we could make it to the Tokyo Edo Open Air Architectural Museum. Like walking into the past, apparently, and they even have a sento for visitors' use! Sadly, it was a wee bit out of town, quite a journey away, so we opted for the Edo Tokyo Museum instead. In a way, I'm glad we did.

The museum was like a journey through time and to my relief and amusement, contained very few pots. I hate museums crammed with pots. Pots, pots, pots and more pots. What is the bloody point? Oh, great, in the fifth century BCE, they drank out of this kind of clay pot with squiggly markings on it. Two hundred years later, the markings were square. Really? How interesting.

There were pots in the museum, yes, but were few and far between. Also, many museums, particularly in the west are more a commentary on leaders, whether they be kings, queens, queens, presidents or prime ministers. The Edo Tokyo Museum dedicated itself to old Edo, its people, their way of life and how they've changed from the days the first people pitched a tent to today. Wonderful, fascinating, enlightening. At points, I felt I was unconscious, in a dream-like state, in a trance, part of the fabric of the building. Everything else faded away, melted beneath my feet. I was in a four hundred year old theatre or polishing rice with a stick or rebuilding my home after earthquake and floods or tuning-in my first portable radio.

Everything was laid out before me. From above, from a reproduction bridge, once could see all of time and space. From below, the journey began... While Anne of Denmark was crowned queen of Scotland, Japan was united by Toyotomi Hideyoshi and Edo's story began.

Totally fabulous.

After our tour of the museum, we took lunch in the Japanese restaurant. Any British museum sees tourists as a foolish and captive audience. They're baffled with numbers, prices and currency conversions and are prepared to pay twenty pounds for a plate of greasy chips. Such abuse does not take place in Japan, at least, it's never happened to me. Ian and I enjoyed a most delicious meal of local delights freshly prepared on our giving the order and at a reasonable price, too.

The maître d' was an outlandish mary with a George Michael style beard. I'm sure there was a wee bit of westerner inside him. And hey, if there wasn't, I'm sure he'd take some. Nudge, nudge. Wink, wink. I have a notion, and Alan thought it too, that if Japanese men are able to grow beards, they do so. Some kind of showing off. Peacocks, as my Mother might have said. But really, dear reader, I don't mean to bitch about the man. He was very kind to us, asked if we needed a knife and fork and showed suitable facial expressions of surprise and delight when we turned his offer down and used the chopsticks provided. A battle of language, though, soon ensued. He was very keen to show off his impressive english skills, we were keen to use what little japanese we did know. Our first lesson of the day came, on leaving, when I said to our man, "Oishii!" which is japanese for delicious.

He corrected me, with a wry smile, "Oishii kat-ta des."

Obviously, these are probably very poor attempts at spelling, but the phonetics ring true.

A delightful man, really. We left with him smiling, saying, "Good-bye," and throwing a wink. To be frank, I'm surprised he didn't blow us a kiss. I'm really not being rude or sarcastic, he was such a nice guy. His kiss would have been genuine.

Marys have an uncanny way of recognising one another. Don't ask me how or why, and let's not get into the gaydar debate, but a knowing look reciprocated with something similar is all it seems to take, regardless of language or location.

After lunch and a telephone call, we made our way to Azamino to meet up with our delicious friends, Alan chan and Jun Kun. Arriving slightly early, we popped into Tully's (nothing to do with Susan) for a coffee and, quel surprise, a cake. My fourth or fifth of the day, I think. Fat pig!

Smoking is a popular hobby in Japan! I noted, though, that this seemed to be the first eatery in which I'd been where there was a designated smoking area. Most other places, if not all, were crammed with people smoking wherever they liked. As a reformed smoker, I should object to eating in a blue haze, though I actually don't. I don't mind it at all. Unlike most former smokers, I don't whine on about smoking or comment on how unhealthy it is. I'm not trying to blow my own trumpet, really, I'm not, just making a comment. Why it doesn't bother me, I'm not sure. I wondered if all this passive smoking might make me reach out for a packet of fags, but not once was I tempted, though I will admit to considering it, chiefly when I'm looking for something to do. And asking Junya for a draw on his smoke did flash through my brain, though a feel of the scar on my tongue with my teeth put pay to that.

After clearing my plate and drinking down my cappuccino, Ian and I left and waited for perhaps only thirty seconds to a minute for Alan and Junya to arrive. Perfect timing. Off to the sento we went.

Edit - in checking out some links, I came upon this. It's fabulous. The first thing a sento azamino google search throws up is Alan's Travelpod blog!

A taxi to the sento from the station was all of a fiver. Not a bad price and another arrow in my qiver, more ammunition to contradict the, "But Japan's so expensive..." argument. I'd pay the same price for a taxi ride here in Edinburgh, perhaps more.

A sento, basically, is a public bath house, a place where one will go not to swim, but to wash, in the time-honoured Japanese style with strict rules to follow. One washes with soap and water; either running water or by throwing bucket loads over oneself. After the washing and complete removal of soap, soaking takes place in very hot water and in a variety of forms: bubbles, waterfalls and even an electric current passing through l'eau! Sexes are separated, though I have, from time to time, seen young girls in the male areas with whom I presume to be their Fathers. This may be a big deal in the west and although I was uncomfortable with it, the Japanese have a wildly differing opinion to the naked body. Although the genders are separated, the naked form is not seen as something dirty, nor, I think, a thing of beauty. It's just a naked body. No big deal.

Nudism. Yes, and the ability to dispell yet another myth! Japanese men come in many different shapes and sizes, as do their cocks! We saw average ones, big ones, massive ones and tiny ones! In fact, one was so tiny, it looked like a hole! Yes, Alan and I do admit to taking a closer look from time to time. Strictly for educational purposes, of course!

After the sento, we got dressed and took a drink. My fluid intake must, I'm sure, have replaced the ounce I'd lost while bathing. I plumped for melon cream soda (it was strange) while Alan went down the traditional route with a wee bottle of milk. Milku?

From the sento, we returned to the port area of Yokohama through Sakuragicho station, met up with Alan and Junya's pals, Dan and Masumi - then went off for okonomiyaki! My favourite! Delicious! And, antibiotics all finished, washed down with copious amounts of sake!

Dan and Masumi are husband and wife; a very interesing couple and very funny. I loved chatting to them and hearing Masumi's English accent. "Who farted?" and "Home James, and don't spare the horses!" I actually thought Hyacinth Bucket was in the room!

From the okonomiyaki restaurant, we headed out to the water to watch the fireworks, part of the Perry celebrations. Very impressive. Just like the Edinburgh Hogmanay fireworks, but went on for about forty five minutes instead of the ten to fifteen I'm used to.

The colourful display over, we headed to an izakaya for drinks and nibbles. Sadly, I forgot the playing cards. I was very much looking forward to playing Scabby Queen and Cheat. We've had such fun times in Japan in the past, playing cards and drinking sake. I was really up for a repeat. Alas, ne'er mind, with the outragous company and free-flowing booze, cards were not needed for a good time. I really had the time of my life.

Our journey home was peaceful. Surprisingly few people on the train to Shinjuku. I sat, in quiet meditation, thinking of the day that had been, the day that was to come and wondering what my friends and family might be doing, scattered all over the world. Some sleeping, some going to bed, some just getting up. My birthday was only an hour away, yet at other points on the earth, it was almost a day away. Without going off on a tangent, I would like to say my mind seems, ahem, to have a mind of its own at times. At the most inappropriate times and in the most inappropriate of circumstances, I can sometimes think the most inappropriate things. I began to wonder about the mysteries of time and space, the idea that time does not exist, that it's just an invention by we humans to measure distance between events. I found comfort in that. In my vanity, I realised I wasn't going to be thirty five years old at all in the next hour, and even if I were, somewhere on the earth, I would be thirty four. Perhaps somewhere in the universe, I'd be thirty three. I'd be a time-traveller. If time exists, of course.

Or is thirty five just a number?

Back at the hotel, I took a shower and climed into bed. Indeed, in strictest terms, after looking at the clock, I was thirty five. Though I thought nothing of it and drifted, very rapidly, off to sleep.

Rainy

I'd heard that the first day of June sparked the beginning of the rainy season in Japan, so was prepared for a week of wet 'n' warm. Unsure, even now, if Japan's weather is as unpredictable as Scotland's, Friday 1st June came as a surprisingly sunny day. Damp and overcast in the morning, a few clouds before lunch and an afternoon and evening of clear skies.

Breakfast was taken in Shinjuku station. Three wonderful cakes, none, sadly, containling custard; coffee. I adore Japanese food. Really, I do, but for some reason cannot stomach it first thing in the morning. Fish and pickled plums does not a morning feast make. Breakfast in the UK, for me, consists only of liquids as a rule. I convince myself that I'm not addicted to it, but a coffee-free morning is hellish. Raw milk makes me feel physically sick, so breakfast cereals are avoided at all costs. Toast should be easy, but it's not. Bleary-eyed and heaving the toaster out from the cupboard first thing in the morning is not for me, dear reader. Mole hills are mountains within the first hour of Minge's day. So, as a rule, breakfast is coffee and nothing else; a multi-grain bar if I'm feeling hungry, which is rare. Hunger is not a rare morning feeling in Japan! The omnipresent European bakery/coffee shop is a delight and I pack in as many calories buring breakfast as I normally do during the course of an entire day, I'm sure.

After breakfast, we headed over to Ginza for a stroll around the Sony Building. Sadly, we were there far too early. It opened, along with most other shops, at either ten or eleven o'clock. What's a girl to do, out on the street of a morning - find a coffee shop for a slice of cake and a cappuccino, Kath!

I love Japanese people and their language. It's strange, wild and exciting. In the coffee/cake shop, I found myself intrigued by something which looked decidedly cheesecakey. The poor wee boy behind the counter could see I was puzzled, so attempted to help me with, "Caku."

Nice.

But what kind of caku? And dare I ask?

When the japanese borrow a word from another language, they kind of japanise it. Is that a word? It is now. A borrowed word ending in a consonant will usually have an O or U bunged on the end. But was caku a borrowed word or a a japanese word I'd never heard before? To save any further problems or embarrassment, I simply nodded and said, "Hai."

It turned out to be pumpkin pie.

Later, perhaps even the next tday, on telling this story to Alan, he told me how the Japanese even reverse the borrowed word rule and remove the final vowel from western words ending in them. The funniest example he gave was of a woman telling him she wanted to go to Toront.

While finishing my coffee, Ian scrambled about in his bag for my address book. Shit. It wasn't there. How were we to call Alan and Junya to confirm our time of arrival without their telephone number? Well, we couldn't. But contact could be made via email - so off we trotted to the Apple Shop! It's not really a shop, though I'm sure people buy things there from time to time. Each and every computer has a westerner in front of it, looking up news from home on the internet or emailing friends. It's a massive cyber café - and totally free. I emailed Alan and told him we'd be there between one and two o'clock as previously arranged. Then just hoped and prayed he'd check his email and not be worried over the lack of a telephone call.

From Apple to Sony and The Sony Building. Amazing. Just like any traditional museum replete with museum shop, though filled entirely with electronica! Everything from ancient old computers to the tiniest of MP3 players. We must have spent a good couple of hours in there, playing around with gadgets and wondering how the hell we got by with the most massive and slow PCs.

The way to Alan and Junya's house in Yokohama seems straightforward for a sheep like me. I just follow whomsoever's leading, whether it be Alan, Junya or, indeed, Ian. JR, Yokohama Metro, Tokyo Subway and Tokyo Metro route maps are just too much for my tiny brain to cope with, so I find it's best to just look away in fear of popping. After three visits, some stations and place names do now ring bells, though they rarely make any sense to me and orientating myself between stations is impossible. I recall Azamino, Shinjuku, Sakuragicho, Shibuya, Shin-Yokohama and the Den-en-toshi line, but that's about it. Names, names, names. Just words.

However, by (my) luck and (Ian's) judgement, we managed to propel our way from Ginza to Alan and Junya's house without much trouble. It was glorious to see them both and their delightful young family; a son, Yamato; a daughter, Himiko.

By this point, I was welling up. Sisters, sisters, never were there such devoted sisters. Once I'd managed to pluck my finger out of Alan's surprisingly tight bum-hole, we enjoyed the most delicious mochi and green tea served up by Junya. I adore mochi. Little mouthfuls of heaven - and this year, new varieties! We were introduced to a pink one and one wrapped in preserved cherry leaves. Most delicious! This Minge is a greedy wee boy and I shamelessly ate two. Though perhaps the second I shared with the equally greedy Alan. He can pack a lot in, I tell thee!

After filling our faces with japanese goodies, the six of us headed out for a wee walk around Alan and Junya's local trolling ground. The boys themselves were careful not to give the game away, though the poor dogs were not so wiley and let the cat out of the bag by heading straight into the first cottage we came upon. I bet if I'd gone in there I'd have seen Alan and Junya's mobile telephone numbers on the walls of the lock-ups.

Our walk in the park was fabulous. Japanese people, in some respects, are terribly British. We met fellow dog walkers and graciously exchanged compliments with them, though, to be frank, we were totally false as Himiko and Yamato were by far the prettiest kids on the block. I'm deadly serious. We also saw a group of elderly women painting scenes of cottages and a duck pond; queens mincing; children fishing.

We walked the long way back home with Alan and the children; Junya, the short. He had an interview to attend later and needed to ready himself. After meeting up with him once more and calming the darlings down to an evening sans people, the adults popped out to a fabulous suchi restaurant where we devoured an absolute ton of barely dead fish and rice. I'd have drunk some sake with my food, but still being on antibiotics, I decided it was better to be good, to be patient.

I'd bought some pills earlier in the day from a man in a chemist shop in Shinjuku. With my non-existent Japanese and his very basic English, I'd hoped I'd made it plain I'd like something to help me bring the phlegm off of my chest. Phew. Thanks to Junya's excellent translation skills, I'd got what I wanted and not the birth control pill or ground up tiger penis. I still have the tablets, actually, and will use them if ever the necessity arises again. They worked wonderfully.

From the glorious sushi restaurant (where we learned it's socially acceptable to eat it with your fingers), Junya headed off to Tokyo for a job interview while Alan, Phyllis and I headed off to the port area of Yokohama to enjoy the celebrations commemorating the opening up of Japan to trade, all thanks to Admiral Perry.

I felt a strange sense of homecoming on seeing Landmark Tower. It's the tallest building in Japan and just around the corner from Alan's first proper home in Japan, a flat he shared with an outrageous lesbian called Eleanor.

Cosmo World (a theme park) was a riot. Alan and Phyllis went on some bizarre rides taking them round and round and upside down. I refused. However, I did agree to go into the haunted house (where I was GRABBED!) and on an god-awful lof flume ride where I thought I was going to die! Scream? I thought I'd ejected my lungs from my body. I hated it, though in a weird way, the way in which I enjoy a horror film. I kind of got off on the fear and will admit to having had a boner as we hit the water. In my love/hate confusion, I lost a nose pad from my spectables. Alan is a kind man and spent what seemed like an hour helping me to find an optician in order for me to be able to wear my vision aids. I simply can't get by without them, see. Well, I can, I can see, sort of, though will siffer, without much delay, a violent headache. Also, I will trip up and many cups, saucers and plates will end up smashed on the floor.

From the optician, we went back to Cosmo World and took a trip on the ferris wheel from where we watched the fireworks. The fireworks came as something as a surprise as Alan had been told they weren't going to be set off that night. I love nice surprises. A nasty surprise would have been an earthquake at that point. The ferris wheel would have toppled over and we'd have all died horrible deaths. See, being a pesimist makes me happy.

How I was convinced to go on the ferris wheel and the log flume thingy, I'll never know. But there was worse to come, much worse, but that's another story and something for another day...

Oh! I nearly forgot the dancing dragons! Did we see them before the ferris wheel or after? And the frozen yogurt! Did we enjoy that (I had NY chessecake flavour) before or after the optician? Was I drunk? No! Just over-excited!

What a fabulous day, a fabulous night. After all that fun, we went our separate ways. Alan headed off back home, Ian and I back to Shinjuku and the Tokyo Park Hyatt, though to be frank, I think I'd have preferred to have gone back to Alan's place for the fun to continue.

Still, I had something to cheer me up... In-between alighting the train in Shinjuku station and finding the hotel, we came upon a Lawson's Station, a fabulous convenience store, part of a chain found all over Japan. Each and every one sells crème caramels in abundance. I bought one, a pack of Pocky, some crisps and headed off to bed.

Look at the day, dear reader, from Alan's angle - and click here.