じしん の れんしゅう

It was break time in school and I was walking back to the Teacher’s Room when I met one of the other teachers in the corridor. “Jishin,” she said to me enthusiastically. This surprised me as jishin means earthquake. “Now?” I asked her, she said yes, but then explained that it was just a practice earthquake. At that precise moment all the children, you see, should have been under their desks. I asked her what the staff should be doing and she said we should be checking that the children were under their desks.

We parted ways and I continued down the corridor. I passed a few classrooms with children diligently cowering under furniture. Then some kids came out into the corridor and said, “Nick sensei,” to me, I went over and asked them about earthquake practice. They said, “Owata,” which meant it had finished. I had no idea how they knew that, but I continued on my way.

When I got to the Teacher’s Room the Vice Principal was looking very serious and standing over the microphone for the school’s tanoy system. There were two other teachers in the room and they gestured to me that I should get under my desk. I did so and the vice principal started talking into the tanoy to tell everyone it was earthquake time again.

There was a CD player attached to the tanoy system by a long wire and after the Vice Principal had finished talking he pressed play. The CD was of an earthquake; it was the deep rumbling sound of the ground moving, with sounds of things crashing, glass breaking and buildings straining thrown in too. The tanoy system was turned up very loud and I could almost feel the ground shaking beneath me.

The Vice Principal was holding a stopwatch that he kept checking; there must be some government standard for how long an earthquake should last for. It was pretty uncomfortable sitting underneath my desk as there is a large bar preventing any from getting more than halfway under. I really would have thought desks in Japan would be more getting-underneath friendly as earthquakes or so common. I wonder if Ikea here sells desks and tables specifically good for earthquake protection, like a family size one with hooks to hang up your torch and wind-up radio.

After a minute the earthquake died down and the Vice Principal gave the all clear. Everyone got back on their feet and dusted off their trousers. I feel slightly more afraid of earthquakes now, but only because of the uncomfortable squatting on a dusty floor I know will accompany them.

Translating jokes

Have you ever wanted to put a joke into one of these Internet translators, translate it to another language and then back into English?

No me neither.

But I did. And here are the results.

First I had to decide on a test joke, one that should be relatively simple and well known to everyone. It wasn’t hard to decide.

Test Joke:

My dog has no nose.
How does it smell?
Awful.

We could argue over whether it should be, “My dog’s got no nose,” rather than, “has no nose,” all day. Let’s not.

The results were generally good, for example most of the European languages like German and Greek kept the meaning entirely and just added a few words here and there.

Greek

My dog does not have no nose.
How it smells?
Horrible.

Italian had a bit of trouble at the end.

My dog does not have nose.
How it feels l'odore of?
Terrible.

Spanish was rather optimistic.

My dog does not have any nose.
How it smells?
Tremendous

Moving away from European languages, Russian translated almost perfectly.

My dog has no nose.
How it does smell?
Awful.

Japanese didn’t go so well.

There is no nose in my dog.
How does smell do that?
It is terrible.

Chinese did well till the end.

My dog does not have the nose.
How does it smell?
Fearful.

And finally, Korean.

To my dog there is not a nose.
It sniff how?
It was severe.

Why not try it yourself, the translator I used is Yahoo Babel Fish at

http://babelfish.yahoo.com/?fr=bf-res

Or suggest a joke to me and I'll d0 all the exhausting hard labour of clicking for you.

Ok I need to go rest my right index finger.

First week of Nick sensei

The first full day of the term was the Wednesday and so this was the day I got to learn the ways of the school lunch. The food ranges from fish, rice, spaghetti, grapes, a small omelette thing, bread, oranges, sausages, hamburgers, vegetables and sometimes a scary meal of small whole fish complete with heads and eyes.

It’s a complicated business. Everyday I eat with a different class and normally one of two things happens. Either, the teacher knows that I am going to eat with them and has already decided which group of kids I will sit with. Or, the teacher is surprised by my arrival and the kids start arguing over where I should sit and I stand awkwardly hoping they won’t ask me to decide.

At the end of lunch, and after everyone has said “gochisosamadesita” which means something like “that was yummy thanks,” the clearing away begins. The children line up and scrape their leftovers into metal boxes laid out at the front of the classroom. Each kind of food has a different box so that meat and vegetables and so on don’t mix. I have no idea why they do this. I have a horrible feeling that today’s food is partly yesterday leftovers.

The teachers, however, have to carry their trays back down to the Teacher’s Room and do the same thing there. The boxes for the leftovers in the Teacher’s Room are not laid out nicely, they are stacked on top of each other with only kanji labels to say what kind of food each is for. Being unable to read kanji I have to open all of the boxes to find out what kind of food they are for. I also always have more leftovers than anyone else because I don’t eat meat. Most teachers just stack their empty bowls and plates up and then walk away, but now they have to wait for this strange British guy who doesn’t eat most of his food as he desperately rummages through the boxes.

But anyway, eating with the kids tends to follow a pattern. First they are excited to see me and giggle amongst themselves. Then they start talking to me, if I am lucky then I can understand them and participate but invariably I have to apologise and tell them I don’t speak much Japanese. When the questions are things about insects, or “have you seen the skeleton in that room over there” my Japanese just isn’t up to scratch. I try to make conversation with them but I’m limited to asking what kinds of things they like, whether they are hungry or full or if the school lunch was delicious.

There have been some nice moments. In one class, for example, each kid around the table pretended to be a different animal with remarkable facial dexterity. Then they taught me a cool way of putting on the school cap where you spin it in the air a few times then land it on your head. A lot of classes ask me to read out their T-shirts, which usually have some random piece of English scrawled across like “Space Ranger Camp,” or “Jack’s Colorado Fishing Emporium” and one boy had the word “Unaffected” in big letters written on his T-shirt.

In my second week I was eating with a first year class and sitting next to a girl who sat with a very straight back and looking rather prim. We were eating a vegetable a little like mange tout but where you bite the side of the pod, then squeeze the pea thing inside into your mouth with your fingers. I was having a lot of trouble with one and was, it turned out, squeezing in the wrong direction. Rather than the pea moving through the hole I had bitten for it and landing nicely in my mouth, it burst through a new hole at the back, flew through the air and landed on the plate of the girl sitting next to me. We both looked surprised, and then started laughing. I told her it was a present. She gave it back.

On the Friday of my first week of school there was a big, nasty typhoon. The students were all told not to go to school but my company keeps telling us that we have to go to school in extreme weather, if we are sick, even if we have nothing to do and no classes to teach we should be there. So I got up that morning hoping that the bus service would have broken and I would have an excuse to stay home in the dry. The subway line nearest me had stopped but alas the busses were still running.

The wind was howling and the rain was falling heavily when I left for work at 7:40AM. I had my umbrella, which was holding up against the wind as I pressed my way to the bus stop. At the bus stop it became obvious that there was no way I could keep myself dry. The rain was not falling in the usual direction but was more flying in a sideways direction. There was no angle you could hold your umbrella at to keep yourself entirely dry so I got wetter and wetter.

After ten minutes of waiting with the other sorry souls the bus came and went, without any of us getting on. What with the subway breaking down the bus was completely crowded so there was no more room. I had to wait another twenty-five minutes or more for the next bus. This bus, again, was very crowded but I squeezed on. With about 60 drenched people in a small space it was unpleasant to say the least.

I was already twenty minutes late for work when I got off the bus and I still had to walk the ten minutes from the bus stop to my school. Unfortunately the wind was blowing in the opposite direction so I had to walk against it to get to school. My umbrella became like a sail pushing me backwards but the wind was so strong that I couldn’t physically get my umbrella down until I found a wall to shelter behind. As I closed my umbrella I realised it was broken, some of the arms had come lose, it was another dead umbrella in Japan (there are many, you see them everywhere).

With no protection I battled my way against the wind and into the rain. I was wet, miserable but somewhere around the small zoo I walk passed every morning I began to feel a reassuring sense of craziness. The whole thing was just ridiculous, this was my first week of a new job and I was going to be late to work, in a school with no students, because of a typhoon. I was secretly hoping that none of the other teachers would have come to school and I could just stumble back home.

No such luck. When I got into school they took one look at me and got me a towel, and a change of clothes. I hobbled into the teacher’s room and saw all the other teachers looking immaculate. “Bastards with cars,” I thought.

It was a boring day; I spent my time preparing for the next week. But, around 1pm everybody started to leave the Teacher’s Room. This happens sometimes, everybody will leave for something and I will be left alone. Then one teacher will remember that I exist and come and get me for an assembly or something. On this occasion one of the teachers said, “Sojio” to me, which means cleaning. So I thought, “Ok we are going to clean the school.” The pupils and teachers do this everyday anyway after lunch and I normally help out so I was pleased that I could join in.

I followed all the teachers into the corridor and someone was giving out gloves, so I took a pair. This was unusual, we don’t normally use gloves. Then everybody stared heading outside, this was also unusual as we only clean the inside of the school. The big group of teachers did not just walk outside but continued right to the back of the school where there is a fence and some trees. Some teachers had dustpans and I kept hearing the word “gomi” which means rubbish. When we got to back fence the other teachers started milling around and I walked around looking for rubbish. I found a crisp packet and picked it up. I walked towards one of the teachers with a bag for rubbish holding my crisp packet produly Then, I noticed that the other teachers were only picking up leaves, and spiky things from the trees. No one had any “rubbish” in my understanding of the word, so I threw my crisp packet back down.

I was desperately trying to join in and be helpful, “don’t be an outsider” I told myself. So I looked for spiky things as well, but I couldn’t find any. I placed myself in the biggest group of teachers and helped to rake up some leaves for about a minute. I decided to try and have a conversation so I explained to a small group of teachers that the spiky things contain what we in England call “conkers.” I mimed the game of Conkers, and they nodded understanding.

Later on that day the “conkers” returned to me in a different form. They were roasted and on small plates. They were not conkers at all but chestnuts. So now if you ever meet a Japanese person who thinks we have a game where we hit chestnuts against each other, then I’m sorry.

So now I know that if they say, “Cleaning,” they may mean, “Going outside to collect fallen chestnuts, which we’ll roast and eat later on.” No wonder I get confused sometimes.

I think it was in my third week of school when some kids started asking if they could interview me. The questions were all, “What are your three favourite…?” concerning animals, food or anime etc. The next week at about 4PM I had just finished printing some flashcards in the PC Room when something caught my eye. In the corridor outside the PC Room was a large A4 picture of my face.

This was odd. Around my face were lots of other pieces of paper and above them all was a large sign reading, “About Nick sensei and England.” Unbeknown to me the kids in the IT Club had taken the answers I’d given them and made a big display about me and my country. I nervously approached the display and began reading it. To my shame I realised that I had given different answers to different kids. Well I hadn’t known what they were going to do with the information; I thought they were just being friendly. There’s a moral here; when being interviewed make sure you know what people are going to do with your answers.

There was also information about fish and chips, English football teams and a place called Dove Cottage that I have never heard of.

But still, it’s not often you suddenly come across a big display about yourself. I am not sure whether either the kids, or the teacher, from the IT Club are going to tell me about the display, maybe there will be a big unveiling. Chances are though that the language barrier prevented them from telling me, or they never even thought about it. Or maybe this is how they wanted it to be, a big surprise for me to suddenly find one day.

Ah well, this job definately has it's moments. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't enjoying being Nick Sensei.

The First Day of Nick Sensei

Hurrah, I have now completed two weeks and three days of my job.

The three days came at the end of the Summer holiday when I had to meet the teachers and start devising lesson plans.

Elementary schools in Japan, like the one I am teaching in, are not required to teach English at all. So in my first few days I had to devise my own curriculum from scratch and on top of that they have decided that my lessons are only going to be twenty minutes long. This came as a shock to me but I guess it is because there are 1000 students and only one me. However, I can barely pick my nose effectively in twenty minutes, let alone teach some new piece of language to foreign six to twelve year olds.

So on the first day I met the Head of English, Ooishi sensei. She is a nice 27-year-old Japanese woman who always looks slightly worried when she talks to me, though this is probably because she doesn’t seem to actually speak any English. It wasn’t my idea but that of Ito sensei, the man in charge of the Board of Education for my school’s area, that my first lesson should be about England and just have me talking for twenty minutes. My second lesson, he thought, should be about me. This seemed like a strange order to me but I wasn’t going to argue and so I got to work making my lesson plans on my laptop and drinking Japanese tea.

The following Monday was the real first week of term and in preparation for it Ito sensei told me solemnly, “You will have to introduce yourself to the students, and the staff.” We talked about that for a while, he told me once more to be “Genki” and then cycled away.

The weekend passed quicker than seemed fair and inevitably it became Monday morning. They wanted me to go in early that day so at about 8AM I was putting on my school shoes from my shoe locker – all teachers have to bring shoes that they ONLY wear in the school, never outside. I nervously greeted the security guard who eyed my foreign face suspiciously and then remembered “Ah, ALT” which relieved us both. Inside the school I immediately got lost trying to find the Teacher’s Room but managed to retrace my steps. My company (who hire me out to schools) provides a manual that advises making a big show of greeting all the other staff in the morning, but I was not in the mood for doing that in a foreign language and on my first day of a new job, so I snuck into the teacher’s room that morning and sat down at my desk.

Incidentally, I share my desk with the "Office lady,” but I am not sure which office lady she is because there are three of them. The desk is mostly empty except for a dusty old name badge, baring the name Wade Philpott – ALT. I don’t know what happened to Wade Philpott, but I am tempted to wear the badge and see how the teacher’s react. I have also been given a name badge but it is written in Japanese and contains my entire name. It can be quite disconcerting when little kids shout, “Nicholas Alexander Grills,” in my direction.

When the vice principal noticed I had arrived he ushered me into the principal’s office. I had in my hands the speech that I was going to give to the students during the assembly; I had it in Japanese and English and had been practicing it on my way to the school. Inside the principal’s office there were three other new teachers who all looked as nervous as I felt. We greeted each other, the vice principal left the room and the principal himself was nowhere in sight so we four sat silently together. In my head I practiced my speech until the vice principal returned and gave us all some pieces of paper that I didn’t understand one word of. I did manage to understand from his explanation that I was to be “number four” though I didn’t know what that actually meant. The vice principal left us again and the other teachers sat staring at the handout, I starred at it too just to keep up appearances.

I remember looking around the office at that point and seeing a clock with a boy shaped pendulum. The boy was facing sideways and there was a girl facing forwards to the left of the him. Whenever the pendulum swung to the extreme left it looked like the boy was kissing the girl (which is a sweet idea for a clock I think). However, the boy’s head and foot were both at the same level so it was impossible to tell if he was kissing the girl every two seconds or kicking her. Perhaps both.

I stared at the clock and pondered my situation. I was sitting with a piece of paper in my hand which looked important, as it had lots of times and dates, but was completely incomprehensible to me. I knew that at some point I had to introduce myself to the students and staff separately, but I didn’t know which would come first. This would have been useful information because I had different speeches for each so didn’t know which one to practice more. Nobody really seemed to speak English, I was just nodding my way through conversations pretending to understand, I was lost, confused and “number four” in a new job in a foreign country, sitting in a room with three nervous teachers determined to keep up an awkward silence. But the clock, with its two-second scenes of affection and abuse sent me into a sense of elation. The fear and confusion turned into an appreciation at how bizarre it all was and I smiled to myself until the vice principal came in and told us all it was time to leave.

Again I didn’t really understand him and so I left my speech in the principal’s office, but I returned for it immediately when I saw the streams of children heading down the corridors in the same direction – the typical assembly march. The vice principal lead us past the children and then into the gym. We were led up the side of the room where we stood with all the other teachers who were doing what teachers always do in assemblies – stare disapprovingly at everyone and everything.

There was a small orchestra on the stage that started playing. When they finished their first song nobody clapped. The conductor looked around to see how many more children still had to come in; it was lots so they played again. The music was good; even the kid with the wood block was amazing. When the room was completely packed with the 1000 heads and faces they played a different song. The atmosphere in the room changed and I asked myself, “Are they going to sing?” and they did. The only part of the song I understood was the name of the school, in case you are wondering it is Tomioka Sho Gaku. Sho means elementary. Gaku means school.

The music stopped, the orchestra left and the principal boarded the stage. He is a kindly man with a wholesome chuckle for a laugh. He talked and talked and then I realised he was talking about me. A thousand faces looked in my direction. I tried to smile at them and then retreated to looking at the floor instead. He talked about the other teachers but the faces were still staring at me.

When it was time to give the speech we were ushered on stage. I am glad I was number four because as you climb up the steps to the stage you have to bow to the principal, but it took seeing three other people do this before I realised. New teacher number one gave her speech. I think even from a distance of a few miles you could tell she was an elementary/primary school teacher. She has a mannerism that children respond to, a friendly and unthreatening voice and motherly curly hair. The second and third teachers gave their speeches and then it was my turn. I took the microphone, stepped forward and said “Good Morning” in Japanese. Thankfully the students responded in turn. My speech was basically my name, my job, my age, where I am from, what my hobbies are, what anime I like and thank you. Firstly my age caused a stir, I had to stop and wait for them to be quiet but I found it so amusing that I laughed into the microphone and from there everything became very informal and very easy. They reacted too when I told them I like anime, and games. I didn’t need to look at my speech once.

We got off the stage and more music played as everyone filed out. I was taken back to the Teacher’s room where I started working on my lesson plans again feeling infinitely relieved. At some point Ooishi Sensei arrived and eventually managed to communicate that I should be watching her class. She teaches one of the first grade classes, 1-3.

I followed her upstairs, her class all called out in surprise when I walked in. I stood at the front smiling at them while Ooishi sensei introduced me and then looked at me in that way which means, “say something!” I had nothing new to say so I just sort of repeated what I had already told them ten minutes ago. I was then gestured to sit at the back of the classroom on a stool by myself.

There were a few surprises, some very noticeable like the fact that the students don’t have to wear uniform. Other surprises crept up on me during the day with different degrees of subtlety. For example, at the start of the lesson Ooishi sensei stood at the front of the class with a straightened back and stern expression. Eventually the class settled down to an absolute silence, nobody moved and nobody spoke. Yet still Ooishi sensei continued to stand straight and stern and I wondered if time had stopped. Then, from the corner of the room a quiet voice said something in Japanese and all the other students repeated it in unison. This happened again, but this time all the students bowed at Ooishi sensei as they chanted. I now know that this happens at the start and end of each class, the students formally ask the teacher to begin the lesson and then thank them at the end. It's rather nice.

The Japanese have a reputation for being very hard working and serious. However, when I saw how many of the students got up and started walking around the classroom talking to their friends during the lesson I began to wonder about that reputation. Where in British schools the six year old children would have already been in school for two or three years, would be wearing identical clothes and having to work quietly, Japanese kids are actually allowed to be children. They still did their work, there was a line of kids queuing up to Ooishi sensei’s desk so she could check their work, meanwhile the children who had already finished started doing a conga around the classroom with laughs and giggles, falling over chairs and tables with glee.

And then, in my mind, a sense of culture shock began to grow.

The end of the lesson came; the kids thanked Ooishi sensei and then settled. Music began to play from a speaker near the ceiling but it wasn’t the school song this time, it was some other cheerful sounding piece. Again there was an atmosphere were I asked myself, “are they going to sing?” and again they did. My stool was near one of the sliding doors to the classroom and I could hear the neighbouring classes singing the same song. Throughout the whole school the sound of children’s singing echoed from every classroom in unison. And then I swear there was a siren noise as if there was an earthquake but nobody seemed to bat an eyelid or do anything about it. And then they came for me.

The lesson was over, it was now break time. Nervously, at first, some of the kids walked up to me and just stared. Some asked me questions in Japanese that I half understood. As more of them crowded around me they got more confident and thus began the prodding of Nick Sensei. My nose was the first target, and has remained my most interesting feature to them since. The first child to explore my nose pressed it down as if expecting it to switch into the “off” position and cause me to shut down. They said “Hana ga takei” – nose is big. This is now a phrase I hear most days. The others took turns to prod my hana and giggled as they did so. Some of them started prodding my shoes and one girl even put her hand into the sweaty armpit of my shirt. My manual says that I am not allowed to touch any of the children, the logic of which I can understand but the reality is that I had to sit there while they prodded and poked. I smiled and felt at least relieved that they weren’t afraid of me.

The next lesson was much the same but I got very bored and sleepy. I was just sitting at the back uselessly, sometimes a kid would turn around to see what I was doing and I would smile at them, but that was the only highlight. In the third lesson, however, we all took a trip to the library. Ooishi sensei led the line of kids and I walked amongst them. They talked to me, held my hand and it was all very nice. However, lining up outside the library I experienced for the first time something known as “kanjo.” It began when I felt a hand on my behind, which I decided to ignore because I thought that if I didn’t react then they would stop doing it since there was no response. However, then they went straight for the middle and lets just say that kanjo describes a medical procedure normally only performed by doctors. I moved my hands into a defensive position but this seemed only to encourage the six-year-old boys standing in line behind me.

When we got into the library I sat down on the floor with the kids and was safe, for a while. Some of the children sitting behind me took up their attacks once more and this time I had to say sternly “Dame desu” which was the harshest way of saying “no” that my Japanese conversation course had taught me – they had neglected to cover situations like this. I was nervous saying it because I wasn’t sure how much of a telling off I was giving them. They reacted by laughing at me but thank Christ it did the trick and I now don’t have to walk everywhere with my back to the wall.

In the library the librarian began talking about all the new books the school had purchased. A book about insects and another about dinosaurs caused the biggest stirs of excitement. After that it was time to choose a book and do some silent reading. I choose a big book about animals and sat a bit away from most of the students to get some kanjo recovery time, and learn the Japanese name for a Northern fox.

Culture shock was definitely growing in my mind. I started longing for schools with bells rather than songs, where kids don’t know the Conga and have absolutely no interest in the noses and crevices of new teachers.

That day ended early for the children and I said goodbye to them all and made my way down to the Teacher’s Room. There was no school lunch that day so I went out to a convenience store to buy some vegetable sushi. I sat alone at my desk staring at my laptop and eating. Some of the other teachers were on the other side of the classroom eating together and one teacher with pretty good English invited me to sit with them. I went over and they asked me questions about when and why I came to Japan and suchlike. This helped to make things less awkward as I felt very much an outsider amongst the teachers.

Later on I was thirsty and looked around the reception area for a drinks machine. I asked one of the office ladies about this and she said the school had no drinks machines. She then showed me a small room with a sink, fridge and suchlike. She explained that I needed to bring a “my cup” and write my name on the bottom, then place it on the extreme right of a certain shelf. I could drink water from the tap or Japanese tea from a dispenser in the Teacher’s Room but if I wanted coffee I would have to pay 1000 yen, which also got me an afternoon treat like a biscuit. I had no cup so asked if I could use one on the shelf, the office lady looked begrudging and I could see that asking to borrow a mug was a very awkward request.

Culture shock.

She eventually said yes and handed me a cup explaining that it was “just for today.”

In the afternoon there was a meeting and this was where I had to introduce myself to the staff. There are probably about thirty teachers in the school, each with their own desk ranked by their individual importance. For example, the vice principal and two other important people sit just outside the principal’s office. Then the line of desks extends from people with specific duties down to ordinary Home Room Teachers and suchlike. I am the least important person in the school by far but ironically my desk, being the office ladie’s, is very close to the vice principal’s desk. During the meetings one teacher is chairperson and each member of staff takes turns to stand and deliver their news, at the end of which they say the name of the chair person who introduces the next speaker. I had to learn all this very quickly. The chairperson called my name, I stood and gave the version of my speech for the staff members. However, the start was much the same as the speech for children and the principal laughed at how he had heard it before and this put me off. So my speech to the staff was a bit of a shambles in the end but it didn't matter, they clapped and I felt welcomed.

Five months of living in Japan had not caused me as much culture shock as that one solitary day. I liked the children, I could get a rapport with them, but everything else was just so different and I couldn’t relax till I was back where things made sense. Outside the school, walking along the street the rules are the same the world over, just walk forwards, don’t stare at people and don’t sing too loud. Simple.

The Health Clinic

In Japan companies pay for yearly heath checks on all their employees and for the first in my life I am now included in this category of the world’s population. To put it more humbly, my boss asked me to go to a clinic today and get checked.

The clinic was near to where I live and was not hard to find. In a country with no free healthcare matters of the body are big business, which is why as well as my map I was also guided by an enormous billboard pointing the way. Where the London Underground has posters for books, movies and shows Tokyo Subway’s walls contain hundreds of adverts for maternity clinics and dentists.

Sterile is the first word that springs to mind while writing a sentence about the clinic, which is I suppose to be expected. The waiting area had some ridiculously soothing music playing, some fitted seats too narrow to get comfortable on and a water machine in the corner. As I waited for my appointment the harsh lighting and sterility of the room began to feel slightly sinister, as if they were expecting me to be ill – which again is probably the case. I went to get some water to try to settle my nerves.

The receptionist came over to give me a paper cup exactly like the one I was now drinking from, except for little labels along the inside marking 50 millilitres, 100 and so on. To save her the trouble of trying to explain what a urine sample was I told her I understood what the cup was for. She pointed to the toilet and said “later.” She went away again and I wondered what the etiquette for giving samples was. For example, if I went into the toilet and did my business as instructed then would I then have to come back out into the lobby with my warm cup and sit waiting for my appointment like everyone else. Or would I need to hand it to the receptionist who would pass it on appropriately. Neither option seemed appropriate and there was no lid on the cup so I decided to just wait. In case I was called in for my appointment and they got the wrong impression I quickly finished my drink. I didn’t have to wait long before a doctor called me into his room with the word “Nicholas.”

His office was very small but had all manner of gadgetry; a digital camera and three monitors caught my eye. He sat and gravely looked at the letter my company had given me to take along. I rather wondered what the letter actually said when he asked me, “Do you have any special kind of disease?” I said “No.” He continued to read the letter and asked, “Any symptoms?” I told him I thought I was healthy and that I was only there because my job wanted me to have a health check. He made a throaty noise that I took to mean that his larynx understood me and that it was waiting for the rest of him to catch up.

Finally he tore himself away from the letter and looked deeply into my eyes before blinding them with a small torch. Next he did the classic say “ahh” routine and stared down my throat. Then he proded my neck and glands. With his stethoscope he listened to all parts of my chest, and then all over my back as if he was listening out for a good station. He wrote some things down and then asked me to lie on the bed. He prodded my stomach and legs and then it was time for room number two. I picked up my bag and empty urine sample cup and followed him.

There was a tall nurse standing in room number two. I put my bag and cup down on the floor and she asked me to sit down. She took my blood pressure in silence. Then she told me what it was and I couldn’t help but look indifferent. She said “good” with a thumbs up and I smiled. Next she measured my height and took my weight. Room number three soon followed.

Putting my bag and cup down again she asked me to stand on a line drawn on the floor. There followed the most confusing eye test I have ever had. The test consisted of incomplete circles and it turned out I had to point in the direction of each circle’s hole. At first I thought I had to draw the circle with my hand but thankfully they realised this was a communication problem rather than one of eyesight – otherwise who knows what could have happened. Then it was room number four for a listening test.

In room number five the nurse put my bag and urine cup down on a chair as I had forgotten to pick them up. It was time for an x-ray. As I stood against the cold metal I taught the doctor the phrases “Breathe in” and “Breathe out” for which he seemed grateful. He slid something black out of the thing in front of me and told me to wait. He walked into the other room and I heard him make a pained sound as if either the x-ray had turned out bad or he had stubbed his toe on the door.

Room number six was the toilet - it was urine sample time. I asked what I was supposed to do with the sample afterwards. The doctor pointed to the wall of the toilet where there was a frosted glass window into the adjacent office. Suddenly it all became clear. “Of course, it’s like a drive-through,” I thought. You see, the entire transaction takes place through a window; they tell me what they want from the limited menu, I give it to them in disposable packaging, they say thank you and goodbye.

Regrettably, I had been just before I left. That sentence makes little sense when taken literally but I am sure you understand. The upshot was I really didn’t need to go. Up until that point I had always considered that when I eventually got to that point in my life, the urine sample point, it would be OK. In the past I had always been able to go when I wanted to, just stand, relax and let it happen. There was one time in a truckstop in America where I couldn’t go but that was different. That was a strange new land with scary men and only a wall of urinals, a far cry from the private room I was now standing in. There was even a dispenser for disposable toilet seat covers for god’s sake. But someone did try the door and that put the pressure on, not the right kind of pressure mind.

I tried everything. I relaxed and closed my eyes. I thought of the seas and the oceans, Niagara Falls endlessly pounding the rocks, Titanic resting on the North Atlantic seabed, the water swirling around my very own body. I had a bottle of water in my bag, I drank it. I ran the tap and held my hand under for some time. I stared down at the water in the bottom of the toilet and imagined it was a great ocean I was falling towards. Nothing.

At that point I thought about how they were waiting for me. The doctor and nurse standing wondering if I had understood correctly, maybe joking about whether I would come back with a cup full of some other bodily fluid. I thought it would appear very childish were I to return to them saying, “I can’t go now.” There is something about being an adult where you are expected to be able to do things. Skills like photocopying or making coffee, but also being a master of your own body - giving a urine sample is one of those things adults are supposed to be able to do. I thought about school where teachers would say, “Why didn’t you go at lunchtime?” this was now a case of “Why did you go at lunchtime?”

I knew the clinic would be closing soon; I looked at my watch and sighed. There was a knock on the door. I picked up my bag and urine sample cup once more. I opened the door and apologised. The clinic was closing; I have to go back tomorrow. “See you tomorrow” I said to the nurse with a big unembarrassed smile.

I finally went two hours later: my precious waste fluid washing away. “Where were you when I needed you?” I asked it. It didn’t reply.

Where I live

I thought it was about time I showed you around where I live.

I live in a place called Mimami Gyotoku. “Minami,” itself means south and up the road you will find Gyotoku about 10 minutes walk away.

Beginning inside this is a blurry picture of the corridor outside of my room; you can see all our shoeboxes at the end.

This room is where the washing machines are and leads on to the showers.

The showers, there are four of them yet never a queue despite there being maybe 30 people living here. There is a notice on all the doors saying, “This is a bathroom not a toilet.” Don’t get the wrong impression; these notices are not trying to prevent people from defiling the showers but instead asking them just to take their slippers off.

A Japanese washing machine.

This is the communal lounge area with lots of tables, chairs a sofa, Internet and a big TV with movies and everything. There is also a white board which makes the room look like a staff room but it comes in very useful during language exchange problems.

This window links the lounge and the kitchen; I think its only purpose is for better eavesdropping.

Everyone has there own tray to keep their food in, there are also communal fridges, freezers and a small fridge in every room.

The kitchen. Two rice cookers, a hob but no oven.

If you leave the guesthouse and look left down the road this is what you see. The left hand huge apartment building with all the fire escapes is typical of this area. In Japanese they are called “mansions,” a name which could lead to some disappointment.

This is the road leading to Gyotoku. On the left you can see the 7/11 convenience store, which is literally just ten metres from the guesthouse. This means that at any time day or night I can buy chocolate, bread, sandwiches, sushi, magazines, pay bills etc etc etc. Its amazing. Back at home if it was after 10PM I would have to get in a car and drive 3 or 4 miles before I could buy anything. Tokyo is amazing.

And this is what my guesthouse looks like from the outside. You can’t see my room as it is on the other side.

Do you think it looks quite evil? The dark and dreary plaster, the uninviting square shape dwarfed by the friendlier looking mansion towering behind. Well, that is what I think anyway, and there is a rumour that this guesthouse is haunted. If you would like to know more about the mysterious haunting of this guesthouse please press Page Down.

On the way to the station there is a pet shop with this written on its awning, it was too wide to get into one picture.

This is the entrance to the subway station.

Downtown Minami Gyotoku. The left building and darker one next door are both Pachinko places. Pachinko is vertical pinball and is extremely popular here.

More of downtown. I say downtown but its only 10 minutes walk away and not that big.

The Holy 99yen shop where I buy most of what keeps me alive.

When I was out with my camera I saw a woman WALKING A CAT. I felt that deserved capital letters. I sneakily took a picture of her and her twice legged travelling companion.

I don’t know much about the alleged haunting of this guesthouse, only what I was told by those who have lived here longer than me. She was a Japanese girl who lived on the top floor and liked a guy who was living here also but he didn’t like her so she slit her wrists and died. That’s it. See, I told you I didn’t know much, just one sentence worth.

I have never experienced anything remotely paranormal whilst living here. Karen on the second floor says that she has heard some strange things but nothing too unusual. Personally I think that such rumours can easily start and spread anywhere people frequently move in and out. There was probably an original event that got exaggerated with every retelling and so on. Like originally there was probably a Japanese girl who lived on the top floor who had really bad toothache one time so she asked the guy next door for some painkillers but he wasn’t in.

Although sometimes such rumours begin with no real event attached, they are just entirely made up by liars. I have done this myself, but that’s for another time.

Well, how would you feel?