Little Human Baby Meat

From our ‘Overheard on the streets of Tokyo’ files:
The granny was pushing the empty pram home. Her two or three-year-old granddaughter trotted alongside, several steps to the granny’s one.
‘What do you want for dinner tonight?’
The sun was going down and it looked like it had been a long day.
‘I want fried shrimp, and fried potatoes, and vegetables…’ the child answered in her babyish burble, ‘…and meat.’
‘Meat, really? On top of all that?’
‘Yes. I want meat - little, human, baby meat. Baby meat would be delicious!’
You see this is why I can never see myself having kids. They go and say stuff like this right out in the open for everyone to hear. Lord knows I said and did enough as a child to shame my parents. But that’s a blog for another day.
This kid’s granny was just great. She totally played along, all gentle with ‘Really?’ and ‘So you’d like that would you?’ and ‘Is that so?’
She left her granddaughter’s burgeoning self free to explore the boundaries of its little universe. With her, this kid was free to challenge and experiment and form her own moral compass.
I’ve read that children’s play is almost universally violent and gory, but usually not a cause for worry. It’s supposed to be a perfectly natural and necessary part of growing up to be a normally functioning member of society.
Had I been looking after the rugrat, though, I think I would have totally freaked out.
As a guardian, how are you supposed to know where healthy stops and crazy begins? Pulling the head off a Barbie Doll? Skewering slugs on a stick to fling at unsuspecting siblings? Tying other siblings to beds with ropes and leaving them forgotten in their room with panic their only companion?
One whiff of infanticide and I’d have had that girl down the nearest mental clinic faster than you can say ‘The fruit of my loins may be the next Jeffrey Dahmer.’
This little episode reminded me of the funniest ever comment from my friend and former co-worker, A.
Now friends would agree that she doesn’t give off the most outwardly maternal of vibes.
So when the topic of child rearing came up, we were all a little surprised to hear her declare,
‘I love babies.’
‘No, I do. I love them…’


‘…but I couldn’t eat a whole one.’

Baby’s First Haiku (Only 1st part’s in Japanese)

Click to hear the cicadas's song

アイルランドには蝉がいないから、帰国したら、この記録したオーディオは貴重な思い出になるだろう。

いつもこの鳴き声を聞いたら　「きっと、日本の夏だ.！」と僕は思います。

今朝、代官山で蝉を聞いて急に感動して俳句を作ろうと思った。

どうぞ読んでください。始めての俳句だから批判しないでください!!

立ち木から

蝉の鳴き声

夏は詩（うた）

俳句を英語に訳して同じく五七五の三句になった。よかったじゃないですか!!!

From where the trees stand

The song of the cicadas

Summer’s a poem

Sorry for that first bit was all in Japanese. I’m trying to challenge myself and make this a bilingual blog.

Today, was a great day. One of those days where I fall in love with living in Japan all over again.

I was walking in Daikanyama, one of my favourite areas in the centre of Tokyo. It’s a bit like Paris with a Japanese twist. Lots of fashionable people and places, cool cafes and restaurants, and tree-lined streets hiding wonderful new discoveries.

Anyway, I passed this park and all of a sudden paid attention to the beautiful singing of the cicadas. I guess because my mind has been on going home of late, I suddenly thought, ‘You know I’m really going to miss this whenever I leave Japan. This sound is just Japanese summer to me.’

I was actually all moved and for the first time in my life got the inspiration to write a poem. I swear this has never happened to me before. I though Mr O’Leary’s (R.I.P.)tyrannical English classes when I was twelve had cured me of any artistic bent.

But I went to a great little coffee shop, got a beer (for Dutch courage) sat in the window and had my first ever Haiku composed in about ten minutes. My father would be so proud. Who knew that under all the pragmatic cynicism beat the sensitive heart of a poet.

I’m actually really proud of myself, too. Why? Not just because of the poem itself, but because when I was translating it to English I found a way to keep the original meaning and the correct meter : A Haiku should be a three-line poem with a five-syllable, seven-syllable, five-syllable pattern.

Would somebody please give me a translating job? Stat. Who cares if I’m not qualified: I rock!

So if you look back up the top you can see it in bold in English. For those who are interested, here is the phonetics for the Japanese version:

Ta-chi-ki-ka-ra

Se-mi-no-na-ki-go-e

Na-tsu-wa-u-ta

The 80s are back: Nooooooo!!!!

Today I was walking through Daikanyama, one of the trendier areas of Tokyo. I came across this display in a window.

S. in Dublin, if you are reading this, I saw it and immediately thought of you.

You’re going to be opening your own high-end fashion boutique soon, right?

Don’t you think a belted, grey flannel, knickerbocker jump-suit is just what the Irish market is calling out for.

Want me to ship it?

Oh Lordy!

Okay. I am now chewing on a rusk and researching adult pampers on eBay.

Theme tune to BOSCO!

P.S. Can some musically inclined person please set this track to a kickin' beat and make it a huge club anthem. Actually, check that. It's surely already been done. I am nothing if not PO-MO.

I thought I knew them so well

OMG I can't believe I found this. Does anyone else remember it? It's the first 'pop' (?) song I remember making any sort of impact on me. Well, I was only 10! Not that my taste has improved very much since then. Something to which many of you could attest.

The thing is, Elaine was prolly my age when this was recorded and yet she looks so old. Sadly, that's almost certainly something grandchildren will be saying in the future when they look at pictures of me from now.

'But she is just such a potato actress....I mean, petite actress, petite actress.' (Quote?)

And who ever knew Barbara Dickson was a trannie.

Oh and those stupid fake mics they always used to have to hold on TOTP. At least the two old pros (no pun intended - well maybe not for Babs) are kind of pretending to sing into them. I remember some acts whose lip-synching was so bad the actual equipment and their mouths new only the briefest of acquaintances.

But lads, I seriously have a problem. Somebody take my youtube away from me before I go looking for episodes of 'Wanderly Wagon' or the marvellous Slighty Bonkers from 'Forty Coats.' I'm one childhood flashback away from completely regressing to a childhood state.

As it is, I'm already foetal and sucking on my thumb... but that's just for kicks.

Oh, I had to say that to balance out the heavy, PC stuff that was going on on this blog yesterday.

A note on diversity

In the interests of full disclosure, the last entry has just been slightly edited.

I had made a comment about Dublin being 'knacker' ridden.

I am ashamed to have used this term.

My sister gently and very appropriately pointed out that this is not a slur against young people involved in delinquency or bad behaviour. It is a slur against an ehtnic group in Ireland (the travelling community), and as such should never be used.

I apologize and promise to try harder to think about what I say in the future.

I really admire my sister, her friends, and colleagues who are fiercely careful to embrace and celebrate diversity in the words and deeds.

I want to be like them and promise to make more of an effort in the future.

I love words - they are my life - and I know the power they hold, for good and bad.

Again, sorry.

Also, I'm happy to receive any other editorial comment.

The unquestioned life is a life unlived.

The angst has abated

Things are pretty much back to normal again after my recent battle with homesickness.

A few things came together over the last few days to snap me back into shape.

First off, I took concrete steps to research coming home. So many negatives overwhelmed me - the hassle, the cost, the bitter realisation all my qualifications are out of date, the time and effort required to re-skill. I guess the skanger-ridden, expensive hole reminder didn’t hurt either (thanks, H., you got my back).

It all made my simple little existence here seem much better by comparison. It also drove home to me that, no matter how much I miss my family and friends, I want to be able to return to Ireland saying, ‘I am…’ or ‘I have…’ Not, ‘I worked towards…’ or ‘I’m almost…’

The second thing that brought me some clarity was going shopping. When I buy clothes, I tend to idealise how great these new things are going to make me look / act / feel. Then, I come home, put them on, and it’s always a disappointment. Nothing ever looks quite how I imagined it. I never capture in reality the buzz the things gave me when they were just an idea.

So, too, with moving home. I tend to build up some big life change as the solution to all my problems. ‘If I just go home, I’ll never feel lonely / bored / dissatisfied again.’ ‘Going home will stop me living as if my life is on pause.’ ‘One more clean slate and I’ll get everything right this time. No more screw-ups!

Of course, it’s all rubbish. Even if, in one fell swoop, I could solve all the problems I have banging around in my head, I’d still just get home and make up a whole bunch of new ones. That’s life, right!

I have to remember that my life is a journey and I must focus on the course and not the destination. (Please feel free to stick your fingers down your throats at this point. I’m one Hallmark sentiment away from drowning in the gushing waters of my profound self-analysis and discovery.)

But really, more than anything else, what helped get me back on track is the good people I have all over the world who care about me.

Many people listened to me whine, gave me sound counsel and advice and helped take my drama-queen ass back off the ledge.

Life is too short for pointless navel gazing. Rather than fussing and moaning or fantasising and idealising, I’m going to use my thinking time productively.

Some of the best advice I got was to really think about what makes me happy and make a career out of that. Being a smart aleck, I was like, ‘Well, I need to spend the rest of my life drinking coffee and watching TV all day.’

‘Ah yes,’ came the wise reply, ‘but could you do that eight hours a day every day for a month?’

Good point - if my recent TV marathons have taught me nothing else, it’s that too much of a good thing can lead to headaches, tired eyes and bedsores.

So, as an exercise, I’m going to try and make a list of times when I have been really happy, and times I have been really sad and see what directions these observations might lead me in.

Maybe I’ll let you know how I’m doing later on.