I’m home! While what feels like the entire rest of the world is wrapping up warmly and sipping mulled wine, I’m stripping off and drinking my drink of the summer, the Hugo. Not that I’m gloating or anything.
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One of the things I loved about living in Tokyo were the thriving businesses run by small shop-keepers: a tiny stationer’s shop wedged between the jeweller’s and a ramen stand, the yaki-imo man driving around in his pick-up truck with a brazier on the back calling out to all and sundry to get his sweet potatoes while they were steaming hot (yaki-imooooo, ya.ki.IMO!), shops selling nothing but seaweed and the local tofu shop which was no more than a hole in the wall.
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Before we start: the title is tongue in cheek – it’s Sunday, and pondering the twists of fate should be done only on days that don’t have “day” in them. But sometimes, I do wonder about what life must have been like for my mum when we were small. It’s not always easy to be a western woman in Japan even now – despite the endless fun things to do (karaoke!) and great food (everything! Except shiokara) you chafe at the numerous inequalities, the feelings that there isn’t enough room for the whole of yourself somehow. It’s not something I can explain very well, but any woman raised in a western culture who has lived there is probably nodding in agreement.
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