If you've ever visited my fair hometown, you may have been expecting a bit of cheery Cockney chirpiness (although, to be accurate, the Cockneys are nearly all gone, and only ever lived in a small part of the East End, so to find them in Wembley would mean they'd got lost on the Tube, but whatever). If that is the case, can I offer you my deepest apologies.
I've ventured to the shops a few times in the past weeks and I'm starting to miss the high pitched, completely insincere welcome you get in Japanese shops. Admitedly, the squealing can get a little waring, the way they stalk me around the shop makes me want to scream and the wrapping is ridonkulous (yes, I know it's not a word, just trying it out) but at least they seem to realise that, as I am a customer, my money pays their wages. In London, they act as if I'm doing them a favour by giving them my hard earned cash. Um, you're welcome.
I went to buy a magazine the other day and the woman didn't pause the conversation she was having with her sister as she held her hand out for the money. And that was despite the fact that she had spent about five minutes looking for the price, which was at the top, where IT ALWAYS IS! Don't mind me, love, I'll just stand here, waiting aimlessly for you to try, and fail, to multi task, because, really, it was rude of me to come into your shop when you clearly have other things to do.
In America, they follow you around the shop which makes me feel like I look like a shoplifter. I might be a bit scruffy, but I'm not a thief. And then they ask me how I am, which always makes me worry that I've met them before and just totally forgotten who they are. Awkward.
So, sometimes, I like the English way of letting me pay and go about my business, without having to deal with people I know are only being nice to me so I'll spend money, but if I could get a smile once in a while, that'd be great.
Saturday, August 27, 2011
Tuesday, August 23, 2011
My new obsession
I'm not proud of it, but I just can't help myself. It's the Real Housewives of Orange County. I found them on a digital channel on a cold afternoon in London ('Cos those almost never happen) and now, every afternoon, I head for the living room, trying to look like I'm just passing through and looking for something to do. And just happen to find the same show, at the same time every day. But, then, so is Mum. She's equally obsessed.
If you don't know what I'm on about, these are rich housewives who all look vaguely similar (ie blonde hair, fake tan, pumped up lips and plastic boobs, you know, like Barbie) and seem to spend a disproportionate amount of their time discussing whatever "drahmah" has got their designer knickers in a knot this week. There are constant discussions about whichever woman isn't there at the time, and they get offended by the slightest thing. To say they are high maintenance is an understatement. I think they are a little bit amazing.
Now, I'm pretty sure a week in Orange County would be my limit before I felt the need to poke someone in the eye out of sheer frustration. Or, you know, wear last season's dress to an event just to get them to shun me from their circle. But the first few days would be hilarious.
Wearing so many diamonds I couldn't lift my hands. Spending my days deep in discussion about my feelings and how so and so hurt them by breaking a nail at a brunch I organised. Going everywhere in a stretch limo because taxis are so last week. Being a total stirrer and having that be completely normal. Yeah, that'd be fun, for a little while.
And, somewhere, there would be a mother and daughter, sitting in their suburban living room, rolling their eyes and wondering if people really live like that.
If you don't know what I'm on about, these are rich housewives who all look vaguely similar (ie blonde hair, fake tan, pumped up lips and plastic boobs, you know, like Barbie) and seem to spend a disproportionate amount of their time discussing whatever "drahmah" has got their designer knickers in a knot this week. There are constant discussions about whichever woman isn't there at the time, and they get offended by the slightest thing. To say they are high maintenance is an understatement. I think they are a little bit amazing.
Now, I'm pretty sure a week in Orange County would be my limit before I felt the need to poke someone in the eye out of sheer frustration. Or, you know, wear last season's dress to an event just to get them to shun me from their circle. But the first few days would be hilarious.
Wearing so many diamonds I couldn't lift my hands. Spending my days deep in discussion about my feelings and how so and so hurt them by breaking a nail at a brunch I organised. Going everywhere in a stretch limo because taxis are so last week. Being a total stirrer and having that be completely normal. Yeah, that'd be fun, for a little while.
And, somewhere, there would be a mother and daughter, sitting in their suburban living room, rolling their eyes and wondering if people really live like that.
Wednesday, August 17, 2011
My confused nationality
In the comments from my last post (thank you very much for the comments, by the way, they're always much appreciated) a few people seemed confused by my nationality. So, let me tell you a story.
Long, long ago, well the 1940s to be precise, a son as born to a couple in County Longford, Ireland. The couple went on to have six more children, although the youngest was born in Galway, which is where the family moved to when the eldest son was 11. The son went on to work in a hotel with his brother, who once annoyed him so much, he hung him by the back of his jacket on a shelf. In an unrelated turn of events, the son went to work in Switzerland and Germany in the 60s when he was training as a chef, and then on to London. His name was Camillus.
Also in the 1940s, an only daughter was born to an Irish couple in London, she lived with her Grandmother in the countryside of Ireland and, when she was six, the daughter came back to live in London, in an area so Irish you'd never know you'd left. Her name was Margaret.
Fast forward a few years, and Camillus asks Margaret to dance in the kind of dodgy Irish dancehall they would never let their future daughter to go to. It was famous for the fights outside the door, as the drunkards tried to get in after the pubs closed. But, nevertheless, the couple met, and went on their first date, along with Camillus' brother, Colman, and his friend, John. Luckliy, this didn't deter Margaret and the two got married in 1971.
They have now been married for 40 years, and have two children, Kieron and Sarah. Their children were both born in London and, because of their parents, have the choice of an Irish passport, a British passport, or both, as long as they pay for them. As for the entourage that came on their first date, John was Kieron's Godfather, and Colman was Sarah's.
OK, I'm going to stop talking about myself in the third person, that's a bit weird. But anyway, there you have it. I have Irish parents, was born and raised in London, speak French, and now live in Japan. How's that for multi-culturalism?
Oh, and it also means, I get to support whatever football team is doing the best, so, recently, it's been "GO JAPAN!"
Long, long ago, well the 1940s to be precise, a son as born to a couple in County Longford, Ireland. The couple went on to have six more children, although the youngest was born in Galway, which is where the family moved to when the eldest son was 11. The son went on to work in a hotel with his brother, who once annoyed him so much, he hung him by the back of his jacket on a shelf. In an unrelated turn of events, the son went to work in Switzerland and Germany in the 60s when he was training as a chef, and then on to London. His name was Camillus.
Also in the 1940s, an only daughter was born to an Irish couple in London, she lived with her Grandmother in the countryside of Ireland and, when she was six, the daughter came back to live in London, in an area so Irish you'd never know you'd left. Her name was Margaret.
Fast forward a few years, and Camillus asks Margaret to dance in the kind of dodgy Irish dancehall they would never let their future daughter to go to. It was famous for the fights outside the door, as the drunkards tried to get in after the pubs closed. But, nevertheless, the couple met, and went on their first date, along with Camillus' brother, Colman, and his friend, John. Luckliy, this didn't deter Margaret and the two got married in 1971.
They have now been married for 40 years, and have two children, Kieron and Sarah. Their children were both born in London and, because of their parents, have the choice of an Irish passport, a British passport, or both, as long as they pay for them. As for the entourage that came on their first date, John was Kieron's Godfather, and Colman was Sarah's.
OK, I'm going to stop talking about myself in the third person, that's a bit weird. But anyway, there you have it. I have Irish parents, was born and raised in London, speak French, and now live in Japan. How's that for multi-culturalism?
Oh, and it also means, I get to support whatever football team is doing the best, so, recently, it's been "GO JAPAN!"
Monday, August 15, 2011
40 years
Today is my Mum and Dad's 40th wedding anniversary. Which, in case you couldn't work that out, means they got married 40 years ago today.
I wasn't there, but from what I hear, the guests wore some amazing 70s outfits, my Nan (Mum's Mum) wore a lovely hat, as did my Grandad, and my Granny got drunk when a couple of her 6 sons thought it would be a laugh to put whiskey in her Babycham. Good times.
Well, 40 years and two amazing children (OK, my words, not theirs) and there's more drinking and eating to celebrate. Well, we are Irish, after all.
Happy Ruby Wedding anniversary, Mum and Dad.
I wasn't there, but from what I hear, the guests wore some amazing 70s outfits, my Nan (Mum's Mum) wore a lovely hat, as did my Grandad, and my Granny got drunk when a couple of her 6 sons thought it would be a laugh to put whiskey in her Babycham. Good times.
Well, 40 years and two amazing children (OK, my words, not theirs) and there's more drinking and eating to celebrate. Well, we are Irish, after all.
Happy Ruby Wedding anniversary, Mum and Dad.
Thursday, August 11, 2011
Home. Safe and sound
I got back to London yesterday, and have been glued to the TV ever since. If you haven't heard about the riots and looting all over England, please go Google and come back.
Luckily, I live in a suburban area with no shops worth looting, and by that I mean no JD Sports selling the trainers that seem so popular among the rioters I've seen on TV, so we're untouched, except for a few Police cars zooming up the main roads, sirens blaring.
But, what a welcome home. Shops and homes burned to the ground; shops broken into and robbed; three people mowed down by a car as they tried to protect their neighbourhood. Basically, all out chaos and destruction by a minority of kids, gathered together using social networks to run amok and destroy our cities.
And where have our leaders been? On holiday. Yes, all of them. At the same time. Because, apparently, the country doesn't need anyone to run it in August. Our Prime Minister waited for three days of rioting before calling his holiday in Tuscany short and coming back to make speeches about the full force of the law being applied, while thugs continue to set fire to Birmingham. The Mayor of London, Boris Johnson, eventually came back from his holiday, despite his spokesman saying there was no need because he could hold meetings over the internet (oh good, let's discuss how Croydon has burned to the ground over Skype, that'll make everyone feel much safer), and, to his credit did more than just survey the damage in South London, he joined the people of Clapham who had been called together on the same social networks used to gather the thugs to clean up the damage. But, really, why were they all away at the same time? Who was manning the phones? And, more worryingly, who had the keys to 10 Downing Street?
All week there have been people trying to work out why these kids (and they are kids, some as young as 11, which begs the questions, where are their parents?) felt the need to destroy the cities they live in. People cite unemployment, poverty, a lack of discipline in the home or at school, all sorts of reasons. But, I don't think the kids rioting know why they are rioting. They just see others grabbing stuff and want to join in, they want cool stuff so they take it, seemingly unworried about the consequences. Somwhere along the line, Britain has created thes kids that someone described on TV as "Consumerist Monsters", they see expensive stuff and feel entitled to it, so take it. But, as someone else said on Twitter, poverty is not about expensive trainers, it's about not having clean water.
At the end of the day, there is no excuse for burning down someone's business or home just because you can, no matter how poor you are, how bleak you feel your life is, how few job opportunities there are where you live. While England obviously has to examine our society and look at ways to give the marginalised hope and security, there is still no excuse for what has been going on this week.
I'm hoping things will start to settle down, especially now the court appearances have started. But the rebuilding will take a long time, not only of buildings but of relations between our government, our police and the communities of London.
Luckily, I live in a suburban area with no shops worth looting, and by that I mean no JD Sports selling the trainers that seem so popular among the rioters I've seen on TV, so we're untouched, except for a few Police cars zooming up the main roads, sirens blaring.
But, what a welcome home. Shops and homes burned to the ground; shops broken into and robbed; three people mowed down by a car as they tried to protect their neighbourhood. Basically, all out chaos and destruction by a minority of kids, gathered together using social networks to run amok and destroy our cities.
And where have our leaders been? On holiday. Yes, all of them. At the same time. Because, apparently, the country doesn't need anyone to run it in August. Our Prime Minister waited for three days of rioting before calling his holiday in Tuscany short and coming back to make speeches about the full force of the law being applied, while thugs continue to set fire to Birmingham. The Mayor of London, Boris Johnson, eventually came back from his holiday, despite his spokesman saying there was no need because he could hold meetings over the internet (oh good, let's discuss how Croydon has burned to the ground over Skype, that'll make everyone feel much safer), and, to his credit did more than just survey the damage in South London, he joined the people of Clapham who had been called together on the same social networks used to gather the thugs to clean up the damage. But, really, why were they all away at the same time? Who was manning the phones? And, more worryingly, who had the keys to 10 Downing Street?
All week there have been people trying to work out why these kids (and they are kids, some as young as 11, which begs the questions, where are their parents?) felt the need to destroy the cities they live in. People cite unemployment, poverty, a lack of discipline in the home or at school, all sorts of reasons. But, I don't think the kids rioting know why they are rioting. They just see others grabbing stuff and want to join in, they want cool stuff so they take it, seemingly unworried about the consequences. Somwhere along the line, Britain has created thes kids that someone described on TV as "Consumerist Monsters", they see expensive stuff and feel entitled to it, so take it. But, as someone else said on Twitter, poverty is not about expensive trainers, it's about not having clean water.
At the end of the day, there is no excuse for burning down someone's business or home just because you can, no matter how poor you are, how bleak you feel your life is, how few job opportunities there are where you live. While England obviously has to examine our society and look at ways to give the marginalised hope and security, there is still no excuse for what has been going on this week.
I'm hoping things will start to settle down, especially now the court appearances have started. But the rebuilding will take a long time, not only of buildings but of relations between our government, our police and the communities of London.
Sunday, August 7, 2011
I wish I was one of those people who could pack a suitcase
So, today I'm off to Osaka, and then, tomorrow, off to England via Malaysia. Every time I go home, I end up passing through a random and yet oh so exotic airport where I marvel at multi lingual Starbucks and coo over the fact that you really can get a McDonalds anywhere in the world, all in the name of the cheapest ticket. This time Malaysia won the "who can offer the cheapest deal" prize, and I'm sure they're really happy about that.
This time, I'm away home for nearly two months. Yup, my parents won the "who gets to entertain and generally be irritated by Sarah this summer vacation" prize, and I'm sure they're really happy about that. No really, they are. I'm a delight when I have nothing to do.
Turns out, packing for a long break is harder than it looks. Especially when you will be in England for the hit and miss days of September, when, frankly, any weather is possible. And even more especially when you have a marathon to train for, because running shoes take up a lot of space, despite what those women's magazines tell you in their "how not to gain weight over the holidays" articles. "I just pop my running shoes into my bag" my arse. They take up space, as do the array of running outfits ready to face any weather, because, hello, it's England and any weather is possible. So, there's that.
After an afternoon spent ignoring the whole "setsuden" issue by having the air conditioner going and pshaw to saving energy (I don't live in the area affected by the power shortage by the way, we're supposed to have solidarity, and my solidarity runs out in direct proportion to the amount of sweat I have running down my back), my room looked like a total mess, clothes everywhere, dog sniffing everything, me trying to stop dog sitting on my clean clothes, because he doesn't smell so good. Basically chaos.
In the end, I gave up, downed tools and went to eat yaki niku, leaving the chaos to sort itself out. It's amazing how much better everything seems after eating half a cow, and maybe a cheeky dessert. They don't tell you to do that in the women's magazines.
Anyway, suitcase is packed. Passport and re-entry visa ready. Tickets ready. Souvenirs I'm not sure anyone really wants ready. Ready for the off.
Malaysia and London, here I come.
This time, I'm away home for nearly two months. Yup, my parents won the "who gets to entertain and generally be irritated by Sarah this summer vacation" prize, and I'm sure they're really happy about that. No really, they are. I'm a delight when I have nothing to do.
Turns out, packing for a long break is harder than it looks. Especially when you will be in England for the hit and miss days of September, when, frankly, any weather is possible. And even more especially when you have a marathon to train for, because running shoes take up a lot of space, despite what those women's magazines tell you in their "how not to gain weight over the holidays" articles. "I just pop my running shoes into my bag" my arse. They take up space, as do the array of running outfits ready to face any weather, because, hello, it's England and any weather is possible. So, there's that.
After an afternoon spent ignoring the whole "setsuden" issue by having the air conditioner going and pshaw to saving energy (I don't live in the area affected by the power shortage by the way, we're supposed to have solidarity, and my solidarity runs out in direct proportion to the amount of sweat I have running down my back), my room looked like a total mess, clothes everywhere, dog sniffing everything, me trying to stop dog sitting on my clean clothes, because he doesn't smell so good. Basically chaos.
In the end, I gave up, downed tools and went to eat yaki niku, leaving the chaos to sort itself out. It's amazing how much better everything seems after eating half a cow, and maybe a cheeky dessert. They don't tell you to do that in the women's magazines.
Anyway, suitcase is packed. Passport and re-entry visa ready. Tickets ready. Souvenirs I'm not sure anyone really wants ready. Ready for the off.
Malaysia and London, here I come.
Saturday, August 6, 2011
Tuesday, August 2, 2011
Bootcamp pain
So, I quit the gym. Temporarily, don't worry, I'll be back trying to lift weights and dancing to JPop on Saturday afternoons in October, but I'm off home for almost two months from next week, so I figured paying for a gym membership in Japan would be a bit stupid. But, I still need to exercise, that marathon isn't going to run itself after all. What to do? What to do?
I spotted a Billy's bootcamp DVD sitting on top of one of Roomie's boxes that she hasn't unpacked in the year and a half we have lived here (no, I'm not kidding) and noticed it had never been used. Roomie was perfectly happy for me to use it (she's good like that) so yesterday I gave it a go. Billy's Bootcamp was all the rage a few years ago in Japan, but, in the way of such things, no one ever talks about it these days. A bit of retro with my workout, why not?
Now, seeings as I spent Sunday hiking up Western Japan's tallest mountain, I probably should have taken the chance to relax, but I figured Billy couldn't be any tougher than the class at the gym.
I figured wrong. I didn't even have the rubber band things you're supposed to use to make it tougher, and it still hurt. I was a bt worried about sweating all over the tatami, but as the air con is in the tatami room, I decided I had no choice but to risk it. Sweat couldn't do any more damage than the dog peeing on it, surely.
The tatami survived untainted, unlike the muscles in my thighs, who have been complaining loudly all morning, even through my early morning jog/. Actually, "jog" overstates it slightly, it was more of a shuffle, despite the groovy new running shoes that are, I'm told, better for my feet than the last pair. My feet don't seem to realise that, though, because the arches are still sore.
So, basically, I hurt, a lot. But it's all in a good cause, because, come November, don't want to be the idiot walking half a marathon. No, siree.
I spotted a Billy's bootcamp DVD sitting on top of one of Roomie's boxes that she hasn't unpacked in the year and a half we have lived here (no, I'm not kidding) and noticed it had never been used. Roomie was perfectly happy for me to use it (she's good like that) so yesterday I gave it a go. Billy's Bootcamp was all the rage a few years ago in Japan, but, in the way of such things, no one ever talks about it these days. A bit of retro with my workout, why not?
Now, seeings as I spent Sunday hiking up Western Japan's tallest mountain, I probably should have taken the chance to relax, but I figured Billy couldn't be any tougher than the class at the gym.
I figured wrong. I didn't even have the rubber band things you're supposed to use to make it tougher, and it still hurt. I was a bt worried about sweating all over the tatami, but as the air con is in the tatami room, I decided I had no choice but to risk it. Sweat couldn't do any more damage than the dog peeing on it, surely.
The tatami survived untainted, unlike the muscles in my thighs, who have been complaining loudly all morning, even through my early morning jog/. Actually, "jog" overstates it slightly, it was more of a shuffle, despite the groovy new running shoes that are, I'm told, better for my feet than the last pair. My feet don't seem to realise that, though, because the arches are still sore.
So, basically, I hurt, a lot. But it's all in a good cause, because, come November, don't want to be the idiot walking half a marathon. No, siree.
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