Marks and Spencer ad with Shirley Bassey

Doctor Who - Catherine Tate - Christmas - Runaway Bride - Doomsday

Happy Thanksgiving Day

Happy Thanksgiving day to all those, here reading, who celebrate it. May your hearts be light, your stomachs full and your smiles broad.

And I hope there's some good stuff on the telly.

I wish I was tucking into some pumpkin pie today. I've been to America a few times and always at this time of year, however, I've never been there during Thanksgiving. Also, I've never eaten pumpkin pie.

I've been reading up about this special day, since, until now, I've been quite ignorant. I've just discovered that since 1970, a group of Native Americans and others have held a National Day of Mourning protest on Thanksgiving at Plymouth Rock in Plymouth, Massachusetts.

Every coin has two sides, I suppose, dear reader, and every silver lining has a cloud.

Still, if you're celebrating today, enjoy it. I love a good stuffing, myself.

First comment

Inspired by Michèle and her Thanks! post, I'm about to tell the world about David Bowie, the first person to ever comment on my wee blog.

David and I were what people used to call a pigeon pair, only twenty months apart. Yes, dear reader, I am younger.

Mum was very hard up back in those days and had no choice but to clothe David in our elder sister's cast-offs. Not such a problem when he was a new born baby, even a year old, but by his tenth birthday, people started name calling. Zsa Zsa was a favourite, thanks, in no small part to his unusual East European accent. David was born in Hungary when Mum mistakenly ended up there when thirsty during a holiday to Russia. She got the works for hungry and thirsty mixed up, then the whole thing snowballed. "I remember thinking," she said, "that one didn't need a passport to find a supermarket in London."

Of course, worse was to come. Not only did David have to wear the girly wear, but I did, too. Of course, I'm more butch than David and objected strongly. Sadly, going to school in the nude was not an option, especially in the depths of a dark Aberdonian Winter.

David and I would look forward to the Summer months, swimming in the river in the only clothing we felt comfortable in, a couple of nurse's uniforms given to us by our sister once she'd given up a medical career (she said her fingers always stank). Boys would taunt us, but David was always there to protect me. Those boys never taunted us again once David had enacted revenge on them by shoving a thermometer up their arse holes.

David ballooned in his teenage years. Our Physical Education master had been giving David a lot of chocolate in exchange for private gymnastic shows. Mum never got to the bottom of what went on, but I certainly got to the bottom. You see, David not only had a lot of chocolate around his mouth, but also all about his botty cheeks. I, sadly, remained painfully thin with only buttons and toilet paper to eat.

David left school a year before me and immediately took a job, if, for no other reason, than to buy male clothing. He started working, the first week of May, 1987, I think it was, for Unigate Dairies, delivering milk at the crack of dawn. David loved his job and often spoke of his love of cream, especially at the crack. Curiously, though, although no bicycle ever played any part in his work, he was insistant upon taking a bicycle pump to work with him every day. One morning, while heading out for my paper round, I saw him coming up the road in his milk float with one of the other milkmen. The other guy was called Loose Cannon. His real name was Henry. I thought he'd got this nick name because his mouth was like a loose cannon. Sadly, it turned out to be his bottom, which, at this point, he'd poked out of the passenger window of the milk float and subsequently began spraying cream all along the street. David then told me the real reason for his taking the bicycle pump to work every day and how Henry got his nick name. You see, dear reader, cream wasn't his forté. No. His party piece involved golf balls.

It wasn't long before David got me a job on the milk floats. The money came in thick and fast. Mum didn't have to play games any more to make ends meet. I never knew if she was actually skipping, playing hop-scotch or hide and seek with those blokes. It must have been a lot of fun, but I suppose she was getting on a bit to be doing such things. I remember her telling our next-door-neighbour that now David and I were bringing in the money she could come off the game.

David gave up working on the milk floats once the cream scandal had become known to the management and he went to work in a jack-in-the-box factory. I don't actually know where he worked or for whom, having never gone there, but I do remember him saying how he loved putting Jack in his box and all the cash he was getting for it.

My days on the milk float were numbered once Mum became pregnant again. Some pregnant ladies become obsessed with pickled beetroot, some with jam, some, even, with coal. Mum's obsession was with cream. David told her if she'd made Henry put the cream in her mouth instead of somewhere else, she'd not be in the position she was in today. I couldn't keep up with Mum's demands and with David unwilling to get me a job in his line of work, I had to leave home, sell everything I owned to the rag and bone man and go and live in a plastic bag in Jenners.

Still, if it weren't for all the moral support I'd received from David over the years, everything he taught me, all his kindnesses and love, I'd have probably ended up in a paper bag. And they're no good when it's raining, now, are they, dear reader?

David now lives in a little Château on the South of France, though he calls it a cottage. He always says how he's right at home in a cottage.

In celebration of David's on-going fabulousness, I hereby offer Hallo Spaceboy by another David Bowie and almost as famous as my dear brother. But be quick, dear reader. One hundred downloads or seven days, whichever comes soonest, and it's a goner. Go on. You know you want to. It is the Pet Shop Boys version, after all.

"Pif Paf Pof" from The High Life

Doctor Who Children In Need Regeneration Special

Web sites of the day

Map My London

I made an entry - see if you can find me.

Mental Health Foundation

Recommended by my pal, John.

Facebook

I found I'd been mentioned on this site and had to join to see what was said.

Rate My Poo
Fabulous - if you're unshockable. Go on, see if you are!

Hot or not

Hours of pointless, egotistical fun.

Two dogs

This reminds me of a joke:

Three Native American boys were sat around their camp fire. That's camp as in boy scout, not as in gay.

One of them pipes up, "How come I'm called Tall Tree?"

"That's easy," replies Howling Wolf. "When I was born, the first thing my Mother saw was a howling wolf, so she called me Howling Wolf. When you were born, the first thing your Mother saw was a tall tree, so she called you Tall Tree."

"Ok,' says the third. "So how come I'm called Two Dogs Fucking?"

Vote!

The people of The Netherlands are going to the polls.

Click here to read all about it.

Days

Pronto!

I can hardly believe that Tuesday is almost over and it's nearly Wednesday, dear reader. Of course, my disbelief does not lie in the curiously-un-odd fact that Wednesday always follows Tuesday but that Saturday seems all of a blink of an eye ago. Strictly speaking, this should now be Sunday morning. It's not. It's Tuesday night. Where does all the time go?

I've been descending back into that blackest of pits since poor Babsy was taken from us. I've not mentioned it on my blog before that awkward post and in some ways regret having done so. As I mentioned in it, voicing my fears, my depression, my anxiety and wish for life to end does me no favours, only makes me feel worse. I feel shame in the fact that my secret is now an open one and guilt in tricking people into feeling sorry for me. Sadly, I wish it was a trick, but it's not. I don't like attention like this, though I am eternally glad for all the good wishes of support and suggestions. I now feel terrible for saying I don't like attention like this but in the spirit of truth and veracity (I love that word), I won't retract it. No one will ever really know how heartwarming it was to read such kind thoughts of support and compassion, but I would hate to think anyone thought I'd posted such a blog entry in order to get attention. It's the last thing I'd do. I'm not an attention seeker nor am I a drama queen and hate being the centre of attention.

Can you see how fucked up I am, dear reader?

I can cope with the past, I really can. The future's not the biggest of problems, either. It's today, the here and now that I find difficult to cope with. It's today that the telephone will ring, the caller bringing bad news to my ear. It's today that I'll go into the post office and be shot. It's today that one of my dogs or Mum's cats will have to be rushed to the vet and never come home again. It's today that something serious will happen to someone close to me that will invariably mean death.

I've had problems with today before, but really thought I'd got over it. Well, not got over it, but began coping with it better than ever before. The today problem resurfaced a couple of weeks ago when Ian and I were shopping in Waitrose. We'd just stepped out of the lift when I thought I saw the perpetrator of the armed robbery in which I was involved at my place of work some years ago. I guess I had a panic attack, but it had been so long since I'd had one, I didn't really know what was going on other than I couldn't breathe, thought my heart was going to bang right out of my chest, had pins and needles, felt faint and everything seemed bright.

Today worries me. I can block out yesterday and not think about tomorrow, but today is happening all about me. I have no option but to cope with it, get on with it and get through it. Not opening the door, not stepping through it, is really no help (and I did try this for about a year). The outside world tends to invade your personal space no matter where you are, dear reader. For this we have modern technology to blame: telephones, computers, televisions and door-bells.

Good days are days when I don't have to cope. I like those days. Take Saturday. Ian and I went across to Greenock to celebrate Coal's birthday with her, her family and friends. Click here to see a photograph of Phyllis having a high old time with Coal's fabulous husband, John. Click here to see Coal and I having a hug and here to see me with their eldest daughter, the ever thoughtful, ever fabulous Kira. Anyway... We had a really good evening. I didn't have to pretend to be someone I'm not. I didn't have to hide, watch what I said or did and, in the midst of the bleakest of times, had the time of my life.

I tried to repeat the experience on Sunday, but found that somewhat difficult. Ian and I had arranged for his Father to come up from his home in The Borders, have a spot of lunch with us and then go on to Megabowl or some other provider of ten-pin bowling. The three of us soon spiralled to seven with Ian's brother tagging along, his two daughters and one of their boyfriends. The duck we'd bought would never feed seven, so, with only two hours notice, we skipped off to the supermarket, bought some Quorn pieces, jars of korma sauce, ready made naans, a ready-made dessert, cream, eggs and a few other sundries.

Stress!

I find difficulty in making conversation quite uncomfortable. I wouldn't say that I don't have much in common with Ian's family, even if I did, my problem does not lie therein. The problem is that I don't know if I don't have anything in common with them. Ian's Father is somewhat conservative and quite religious. I find myself watching what I do and say and certainly am scared of being left alone with him. That's not to say I don't like Ian's Father. I do. He is not the problem. It's me.

Ian's Father has always seemed a little strange to me. He's cold, distant, thoughtless and sometimes does and says the most inappropriate things. Having said all that, I kind of admire him for this. What you see is what you get and I really like that. He's quite different to my own Father who was the original great pretender.

Another thing I really like in Ian's Father is that he's surprised me recently. For reasons I really don't want to go into here, I really fell out with him a while back. I didn't really want to fall out with him and furthermore didn't want anyone to know, especially him, as it was a time of great sorrow for the whole family. I think perhaps I should have been more understanding and shown some compassion, but again, I don't really want to go into the reasons why, though I should say this: He didn't upset me, but upset someone very close to me by either being thoughtless, puritanical, conventional or uptight - or a combination of all four. I really didn't want my upset top be obvious. In times like those, hating and being unable to cope with confrontation and/or pretence, I simply withdraw, walk away. True to form, this is exactly what I did. Sadly, it was noticed, Ian's Father saying, "I haven't seen you in a long time..."

I'm pleased to say that in a year, he's changed from a man who found it difficult to shake my hand to a man who hugs me every time we meet.

So, you see, he's not a bad man at all.

But there's a bad thing in me that finds it difficult to cope with with people who are uncomfortable with me. Their discomfort piles on top of my own and inside I find I'm screaming.

Ian's brother's not such a task. He's actually quite nice, I really like him. He's honest, kind and genuine. But our meetings are still uncomfortable. Again, nothing to do with him and everything to do with me. I don't think he's judging me and I'm sure he doesn't think ill of me, but I am aware I'm nothing like the rest of Ian's family and they know it. There lies the discomfort. I wish it wasn't there, but it is.

After the arrival of Ian's family and on having had a cup of tea, Ian suggested he'd take the dogs out to see if they needed yellow and/or brown before we left them for a few hours. The very idea of him leaving me alone in my own home with these people filled my heart with dread and I immediately suggested I'd take them instead. I'm sure my dive to fill the breach was obvious, but I'd prefer that to being left in the uncomfortable atmosphere of a room full of people I barely know.

Our afternoon bowling was fabulous. Not a soul needed to look for something to talk about and no-one had to sit staring at the ceiling. There were scores to applaud and failures to commiserate. Click here to see Ian's niece at the bowling alley. It was a very funky place, almost like a night club.

On returning home, I prepared the meal. This was good. Although stressful when one's not used to cooking for seven (or opening enough jars for seven), I was provided with an escape hatch into the kitchen. The meal wasn't a difficult chore either, with Ian's family talking amongst themselves, all I had to do was listen.

I will admit to being relieved when they'd gone. I hate saying that, but it's the truth. I should repeat: they're not bad people, they're just different to me. They're not the problem, I am. I wish I was closer to them and I wish I could be myself, but I can't. Once more, I don't really want to go into every reason why (you'd be here weeks, dear reader) but I do have the impression (as does Ian) that if you're not an achiever, Ian's Father will frown upon you. Ian tells me himself that he grew up in an atmosphere of hearing how wonderful, X, Y and Z were for passing all their exams, getting married and having beautiful children whereas A, B and C were terrible having left school with no qualifications and having had a baby without getting married. I'm no achiever and I suppose I, like anyone, don't really relish being frowned upon.

I guess, in writing this (who said writing wasn't cathartic?) I've found the root of my problem with Ian's family. I have no confidence, no self-confidence, seek approval in others and fear scorn.

Add to this the less-than-helpful remark, on Ian telling his Father he was gay, Ian's Father replied, "Well, don't think I'm coming up to Edinburgh to see anyone like that and don't ever bring people like that here."

I wouldn't say I had thoughts of suicide over the weekend and yesterday, but I certainly did think it would be easier if I was dead. Let's face it, dear reader, it would be. But I'm not feeling like that today. I may fall back in one day, but I am doing my level best to climb out of this horrible pit.

I think it's better not to look forward to anything. It's the best way to avoid disappointment when these things you're looking forward to don't come off. But I will admit to being curious about tomorrow - and that's always a good sign. My curiosity came about, in no small part, thanks to, weirdly, people whom I've never met, but people who care.

Exciting! Nice to care about people.

Now, back to those days. Where did they go? And what will they bring?

I took a chance this evening and let my mind wander back into the past. I thought of the days I'll never forget, days I'll remember all my life and thought of that very song, Days, as sung by Kirsty MacColl. You can download it, dear reader, by clicking here. Hurry, though, after seven days or one hundred punters, it'll be dead. Listen to it and think of your little Minge.

It's sink or swim and I'd rather not have that sinking feeling. Swimming is so much nicer.

Fascination

I'm fascinated, dear reader, in finding someone from my 'hood reading my blog.

Hiding from the world is not easy on the internet, not that I was hiding, but I've never made my name nor location that obvious. More than fascinated, I'm also intrigued at being uncovered and must admit to grinning like the proverbial Cheshire cat on being discovered.

Would you like to see some more? I could show you, if you'd like to.

In celebration of my fascination, I hereby offer Fascinated by Company B for your delectation, dear reader. But be quick! One hundred downloads or seven days, whichever comes soonest, and it's done. Go on, you know you want to. Click here.

The on-coming storm

Depression and anxiety are the most common mental health problems in the UK.

Everyone feels down in the dumps, sad or low at some time. That is a normal part of life, just as feeling excited, ecstatic, euphoric or generally happy. People sometimes describe themselves as depressed when what they mean is that they are feeling a bit down.

Depression is where these feelings are severe, or long lasting.

When symptoms go on for more than a couple of weeks, or if a person feels suicidal or has thoughts about suicide, medical help should be sought urgently.

Depression is increasingly common. Significant life events can trigger periods of depression…exam or work stress, family turmoil, or concerns around identity or sexual orientation are all types of thing that can be triggers.

Strangely, one catch 22 symptom/manifestation of depression occurs when one feels depressed without being able to pin-point why. Often, there is a reason, but the mind is in such turmoil or surrounded by such fog that one cannot see those reasons.

Anxiety and depression are strange things. I've often thought it's like lying asleep on the beach. I've woken up. Not only has the tide come in and swept over me, but am actually now in very deep water and about to drown. Another way I've described depression is like an on-coming storm. I'm looking ahead into a sunny, blue sky. Behind me, the sky is black. By the time the wind is howling about me and the rain is lashing down, it's too late to seek shelter and I'm drenched.

I've never been able to work out how to dry out. Ok, so sometimes, I've been drier than others, but I've always been a wee bit damp.

Stigma is depression's favourite bed-fellow. I find it very difficult to vocalise my sadness, depression or anxiety. I become embarrassed, sometimes squirm. I know by divulging such information, I'm making the listener feel uncomfortable. This discomfort only adds to my own and the whole thing snowballs - so it's best to say nothing at all. A problem shared is not necessarily a problem halved.

On a similar note, I'm sometimes aware that I'm surrounded by so many problems or tasks that in attempting to manage one, I'm not attending to the others. This causes me stress and dispair, so in order that I don't feel I'm leaving something out or not attending to some task or problem, I'll do nothing, instead. The taks and problems then pile up ever more.

Sometimes, I wish all the stuff would all go away. Not just all the bad, everything, including the good. Life would be so much easier to cope with if nothing actually happened.

What's the answer? A self induced coma?

All this, dear reader, of course, is not to say one can't smile, laugh and enjoy oneself during a bout of depression. I can sometimes be in the deepest of black holes yet laugh more heartily and loudly than ever before, smile more broadly and enjoy events and circumstances like I've never done before. Yes, I may have a short attention span, but getting through something from start to finish, like this blog entry for instance, makes me feel like I've really achieved something and gives me such a good feeling, better than if I was feeling in good spirits and had read War And Peace in a weekend, decorated the house from top to bottom and solved the political crisis in the Middle East.

I don't have a beginning, middle and end to this, but before I close, dear reader, please, if you know someone's depressed, have a wee chat with them and try to say and do things to encourage a wee bit of cheer. Please don't try and change the subject. And be frank. I'm sure it will be appreciated.

You can't be Fib Sunday

Today is Sunday - Fib Sunday! Exciting! Nice to take part in Fib Sunday!

Please take part. You know you want to. Go on, go on, go on, go on, go on... etc.

If you don't know what's going on, click here to read the original instructions.

In brief:

1) I take the topic as given in last week's final entry, write a Fib and give a new topic.
2) Your reply to the topic is in the form of a Fib in the comment section.
3) You then supply the next topic.
4) The next visitor replies with a Fib on the newly given topic and then provides a new topic and so on...

A Fib is a six line, twenty syllable poem with a syllable count by line of 1/1/2/3/5/8. The only restriction on a Fib is that the syllable count follow the Fibonacci sequence. An example of a classic fib:

One

Small,

Precise,

Poetic,

Spiraling mixture:

Math plus poetry yields the Fib.

Last week, Brian left us with the topic of quidditch. My response:

Balls,
Bats,
Witches,
Chimera!
J K lives near me.
I've seen her playing in her yard.

Next topic:

Tennis

Haiku Saturday

Today is Haiku Saturday, you bastard.

You know what to bloody well do.

Damned well click here.

Gggrrr!

Aaarrrggghhh!

Tsk!

Wwwaaarrrggghhh!

Fffnnnaaarrr!

Sssccchhhtttkkk!

Lost dog

Republic

If you think the UK should become a republic, please click here and add your name to the petition on the Prime Minister's official web site.

You have to be British to sign.

Also, take a moment to look through some of the other petitions one can sign. A few are quite hilarious! My favourite: Move Parliament to Bradford.

Peep-hole Minge

Hello, punters, and welcome to a peep-hole on Minge. I was thinking of a glory-hole, but it's just not proper, is it?

Here, today, we find Minge in the same old threadbare jeans as we always do. He wears them to make him feel good about himself as they're a 32" waist. He also thinks they're trendy and are hopefully knocking one or two years off of the forty years old people usually guess when his age is in question.

Today, dear reader, sentence construction is not his strong point.

The socks are stripey. They make him feel funky. The underpants are white CK briefs. They stop him from feeling a sexless frump.

Over the top of a Madonna white reinvention tour t-shirt, we find him wearing a grey jumper received as a Christmas present almost a year ago. Contrary to its perceived quality, garnered chiefly by its expense, it's quite bobbled. He will not stoop so low as buying a de-bobbling device since he feels only middle aged housewives would even consider such a purchase. Instead, he picks them off by hand when there's nothing better to do and scatters them, willy-nilly, about his abode.

Let's have a look at that gnarled old face, now, dear reader. Notice the brown eyes. His parents both have blue eyes. The milkman delivering to his parents' home in the early 1970s had brown eyes. His Mother claims not to have had sex with her husband for a good year before Minge was conceived. Do I have to spell it out?

The eyes are one thing, but the eyebrows are another. Look how sparse and patchy they are, baby. Any hair longer than the others must be removed. Others are pulled out during periods of worry or upset. Some people bite their nails to the quick, some self harm, others simply cry. Minge pulls the hairs out from his eyebrows. Plucking into a beautiful crescent could be quite gay. Massacring them into something a bag lady might be ashamed at having is awful.

The hair is bleached in some wild attempt to make it look like there's more of it. The desperate, bald old queen. It's sad, really, isn't it, my darling?

The beard goes unshaven for yet another day. Typically, shaving takes place perhaps only twice a week. Not because there's no reason to shave, dear reader, no, simply because Minge is a lazy bugger who can't be arsed.

He is clean, though, showering daily. He was under the fine drizzle of his electric excuse for a shower this morning at 09:00 for at least ten minutes. The shower gel may be Armani, but it's not environmentally friendly. Tut, tut.

The finger nails are short and bitten. This is not a nervous habbit, he just hates long nails (perhaps he was a lezza in a former life?) so bites them down. It's easier than searching for nail scissors or clippers. He'd like to know why nail scissors don't work when a right handed person is trying to cut finger nails on their right hand.

He's been listening to Pandora for the past forty minutes but is tired of that, now. It must be time for Liza. She always makes him feel chirpy. He wonders if Liza could make anyone feel down?

After a visit to his GP this morning, he's more worried than ever about a lump on his tongue, he's also been feeling sad about the death of poor Babsy and is having problems with inappropriate and uncomfortable thoughts. Pie charts play a large part in this problem. Not everything can be represented as a pie chart, you know, dear reader. He's also concerned that for the past three nights, he's had dreams about Anal. Not the act, the black man as seen at the bowling alley last Friday.

I don't want you to come away from this blog at all worried, now, dear reader. Fret not. Those jeans will be washed tomorrow and for one, maybe two days, other trousers shall be worn.

Words of the day:

Television
Video
Scoundrel
and
Scrotum

Numbers of the day:

Three
Six
and
Seven

Colours of the day:

Black
Purple
and
Orange

Weather:

Cold
Cloudy
and
Sunny spells

Sea temperature:

Fucking freezing

Neighbour

Here's an exciting opportunity for you, dear reader. Come and live next door to Minge!

My neighbours have put their house up for sale. It's the one on the end of the terrace in the photograph to the left.

Nice, huh?

Click here for all the details.

Not only will you have great living accommodation in a great part of Edinburgh, you'll also have the best neighbours anyone could wish for!

The Queen's Speech

Today was the official State Opening of Parliament and, as usual, the Queen addressed her legislature with a speech written for her by the government.

Although it's an interesting affair to watch (the searching of the cellars, the wearing of the Imperial State Crown, the horse drawn carriages and procession...), the most engaging aspect is the speech itself and its content.

Commentators have called today's speech a speech of fear. I've heard people say that as long as we're frightened, yet safe, we'll vote for the people that keep us safe.

This may well be true.

But we're not safe. Terrorism and security aside, we're approaching a critical point in the history and future of this world. We may even be facing the end. Not the end of the world, surely, but the end of human beings and most life as we now know it.

The government is making all the right noises about climate change and indeed is going in the right direction, but all that is really happening is tinkering. Nothing substantial is happening. It may be argued that nothing substantial has happened (Iraq aside) since Tony Blair was swept to power in 1997. His legacy? Iraq? No, his tinkering.

Nothing radical has happened in this country in ten years. Perhaps even longer. Love her or loathe her, the last radical Prime Minister we had was Satan - erm, I mean Margaret Thatcher. Britain was most certainly a very different country at the end of the 80s, very different to the country she took control of at the end of the 70s.

Is the United Kingdom really any different now? Has it substantially changed since 1997? I don't think so.

Yet Mr Blair has had many opportunities and he's passing them by.

Also in the news today: Young's plan to send seafood caught in Scottish waters on a 12,000 mile trip to Thailand in order to be peeled only to be sent back to the UK to be sold.

What the hell is going on?

Should the Queen's speech not have contained advice of legislation to come in which activities like these would be outlawed?

I also heard, only a week or two back, I think, that apples sent to the UK from New Zealand are, on arrival in this country, put on another ship and sent to South Africa to be waxed before being returned here to be sold in supermarkets.

Before retiring to bed, may I ask something of you, dear reader? Wherever you are in the world, please don't buy apples out of season. And please don't buy any Young's products. I'll sleep more soundly knowing you're at least thinking about it. You don't want me to lie awake all night, fretting, do you?

Miscellaneous photographs Takayama - Kanazawa

Kanazawa, by night, from our hotel room. The photograph is supposedly how it would have turned out if taken during an earth quake.



Kanazawa, by night, from our hotel room.



Kanazawa, by night, from our hotel room.



Inotani shop.



Inotani station.



Inotani station.



Inotani station.



Koi at the Samurai's House.



The return of the medallion man.