Flying carp and death by loudspeaker
This evening a trip down the road to the in-laws for eight-year-old Hiroshi's birthday barbeque. First we erected the magnificent koinobori pole. Atsushi scraped out the hole with his fingers. I spotted a mukade (dangerous buggers with a venomous sting) and warned him. He shrugged and dug his fingers further into the hole without a care in the world. I waited for the shriek of pain. None came. After a fair bit of hassle we attached the carp themselves. The wind blew obligingly and the carp danced merrily 30 feet in the air. They were full of vim and vigour. A good sign.
We ate around the barbeque. The evening was cold, as was a lot of the food. For a culture that prides itself on cuisine, I can never understand why temperature doesn't seem to enter the equation. While we ate our cold food, a notice came booming out over the local community loudspeaker system. It reminded me of a tinny announcement at an English country fair declaring the winner of the raffle, but there was no winner in this raffle. A local resident, Mr Fujisawa, aged 60, had passed away. Details of his wake and funeral arrangements, all with a slight echo over the tannoy, were relayed to everyone within a five mile radius. We continued to eat our charcoal-grilled fare.
Hiroshi's grandparents (no relation to my children) were there. The grandfather cornered me, and with a face full of shishamo fish and wonky teeth, told me how Japan was going down the pan - no safety any more. Kids being kidnapped and murdered and all the news was bad. One of his grandchildren told him his manner of speaking was "frightening". I think she meant the contents of his mouth rather than the contents of his moan, but I can't be sure. Unabashed he continued.
When he'd gone to England, the customs officers (knowing all the Japanese in his day were law-abiding) let all the Japanese through without a word, but stopped all the Spanish. My daughter interrupted him in mid-flow and told him she was pretty sure we'd all heard this story before. We had. I wondered if I should "have a word" with my daughter about her cheek, but we had all heard about those slippery Spaniards at least four times previously, and what's more he had sprayed roughly half of his shishamo over me during our conversation, so I didn't really have the heart to give her an earful. The grandfather doesn't get much respect, but then he does speak with his mouth full.
We moved inside and continued to eat and drink. The cake was great. We sang "Happy Birthday" in English. I had brought Guinness. Cans with the widget, so that when you pour it comes out like draught. I think they're pretty darn good. My sister-in-law thought it tasted of soy sauce, and my brother-in-law failed to pass comment. No more deliveries of "the Black stuff" for them.
Hiroshi enjoyed his birthday. We did too. I hope his grandfather can say likewise. The Fujisawa's, on the other hand, had an altogether different kind of ceremony to mark on April 23.
We ate around the barbeque. The evening was cold, as was a lot of the food. For a culture that prides itself on cuisine, I can never understand why temperature doesn't seem to enter the equation. While we ate our cold food, a notice came booming out over the local community loudspeaker system. It reminded me of a tinny announcement at an English country fair declaring the winner of the raffle, but there was no winner in this raffle. A local resident, Mr Fujisawa, aged 60, had passed away. Details of his wake and funeral arrangements, all with a slight echo over the tannoy, were relayed to everyone within a five mile radius. We continued to eat our charcoal-grilled fare.
Hiroshi's grandparents (no relation to my children) were there. The grandfather cornered me, and with a face full of shishamo fish and wonky teeth, told me how Japan was going down the pan - no safety any more. Kids being kidnapped and murdered and all the news was bad. One of his grandchildren told him his manner of speaking was "frightening". I think she meant the contents of his mouth rather than the contents of his moan, but I can't be sure. Unabashed he continued.
When he'd gone to England, the customs officers (knowing all the Japanese in his day were law-abiding) let all the Japanese through without a word, but stopped all the Spanish. My daughter interrupted him in mid-flow and told him she was pretty sure we'd all heard this story before. We had. I wondered if I should "have a word" with my daughter about her cheek, but we had all heard about those slippery Spaniards at least four times previously, and what's more he had sprayed roughly half of his shishamo over me during our conversation, so I didn't really have the heart to give her an earful. The grandfather doesn't get much respect, but then he does speak with his mouth full.
We moved inside and continued to eat and drink. The cake was great. We sang "Happy Birthday" in English. I had brought Guinness. Cans with the widget, so that when you pour it comes out like draught. I think they're pretty darn good. My sister-in-law thought it tasted of soy sauce, and my brother-in-law failed to pass comment. No more deliveries of "the Black stuff" for them.
Hiroshi enjoyed his birthday. We did too. I hope his grandfather can say likewise. The Fujisawa's, on the other hand, had an altogether different kind of ceremony to mark on April 23.
posted by jh at 23.4.06
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