The end of the month coincides with the end of Shoji's three year tenure at Nanachu coincides with he and his mates' monthly kick about. I've been twice before and felt a bit of a lemon, not being able to speak much Japanese, nor kick a ball very well at all. But tonight's the night. Seeing as I won't see him much here on out, I told him I'm keen to come along. Tonight we're going to play football. At least..I think we are.
I mailed him and asked if he was still going to play football tonight. What time is it from, I asked also. Oh, the folly of mailing in Japanese: you're sure to get a response in Japanese!
'Or only now, is! It is from 8 o'clock' is what Babel on-line translator says Shoji had to say.
"Or only now, is!" ??? What the fuck does that mean?! I hate on-line translators.
So something is going to be happening from 8 o clock. I have n't the faintest foggiest wisp of an idea what 'Or only now, is!' is going to entail, but it definately sounds exciting. In fact, I'd better be going, since it's now 4 minutes past 'Or only now, is!' start time. Not sure exactly where I should be going though...
Saturday 31 March 2007
Goodbye Special K
Kasuya Sensei is an old hand at the ALT business, she knows exactly what she's doing. She once went to Australia, lived with various host families and taught Japanese but returned earlier than her visa expiry date because she missed Japanese food so much. She's been in my shoes, she knows the jist.
August is the Hanagasa festival here. People dance down Nanokamachi with flower hats while other people sit at the edge of the street and watch and applaud. The dance moves are synchronised and there are several slightly different versions of the same basic pattern. It makes for an impressive spectacle when it's done right. Which we didn't do. Two dozen odd foreigners made it down the street and sweating heavily through the soggy heat and lightly delirious from fatigue, we ended up outside Bunshokaan, the parade's end. Which is where I found Kasuya Sensei, waiting to meet me for the first time.
I started to make a list of all the things she's given me and got as far as (in reverse chronological order and scrambled a bit by the vicissitudes of a mis-firing memory)....
2 large radishes,
a copy of Ishiguro's 'The Remains of the Day',
a flower garden,
2 bowls of flowers,
maps and maps and maps,
3 birthday birthday cakes,
apple pie apple crumble at various elevenses (along with cups and cups of her favourite Harrods English breakfast tea No.14),
drip coffee filters,
kanji books,
a Japanese to English to Japanese furigana dictionary,
a moving parts birthday card,
long term loan of The Encyclopaedia to Everything Japanese,
hand-made, laminated flash cards for the days of the week,
a big bunch of lilies, sakura and other flowers I cannot identify from the Graduation Ceremony display, after the graduation ceremony,
a kanji name and two blocks of sandstone for a personal kanji name hanko (the first was too hard to etch the kanji into)
and then I ran out of steam and my head hurt a little from the exertion of remembering so many things.
Today I went to school to give her a gift of my own. She said that she had to see out her contract and the month so I was expecting to see her packing up the last of her things. But she wasn't there. No-one was there, except the baseball team outside and a pair of mothers who gave me suspicious looks when I parked my car. The teacher's room was empty, but I did find two more gifts on my desk, from Kasuya Sensei. She'd left a set of mini garden tools, for the flower garden, and precise directions on a post-it to another Encyclopaedia to Everything Japanese in the library.
August is the Hanagasa festival here. People dance down Nanokamachi with flower hats while other people sit at the edge of the street and watch and applaud. The dance moves are synchronised and there are several slightly different versions of the same basic pattern. It makes for an impressive spectacle when it's done right. Which we didn't do. Two dozen odd foreigners made it down the street and sweating heavily through the soggy heat and lightly delirious from fatigue, we ended up outside Bunshokaan, the parade's end. Which is where I found Kasuya Sensei, waiting to meet me for the first time.
I started to make a list of all the things she's given me and got as far as (in reverse chronological order and scrambled a bit by the vicissitudes of a mis-firing memory)....
2 large radishes,
a copy of Ishiguro's 'The Remains of the Day',
a flower garden,
2 bowls of flowers,
maps and maps and maps,
3 birthday birthday cakes,
apple pie apple crumble at various elevenses (along with cups and cups of her favourite Harrods English breakfast tea No.14),
drip coffee filters,
kanji books,
a Japanese to English to Japanese furigana dictionary,
a moving parts birthday card,
long term loan of The Encyclopaedia to Everything Japanese,
hand-made, laminated flash cards for the days of the week,
a big bunch of lilies, sakura and other flowers I cannot identify from the Graduation Ceremony display, after the graduation ceremony,
a kanji name and two blocks of sandstone for a personal kanji name hanko (the first was too hard to etch the kanji into)
and then I ran out of steam and my head hurt a little from the exertion of remembering so many things.
Today I went to school to give her a gift of my own. She said that she had to see out her contract and the month so I was expecting to see her packing up the last of her things. But she wasn't there. No-one was there, except the baseball team outside and a pair of mothers who gave me suspicious looks when I parked my car. The teacher's room was empty, but I did find two more gifts on my desk, from Kasuya Sensei. She'd left a set of mini garden tools, for the flower garden, and precise directions on a post-it to another Encyclopaedia to Everything Japanese in the library.
Thursday 29 March 2007
The Queen of Hearts
Ito-sensei has an exquisite sense of cunning when it comes to match-making. This week she introduced me to the third of her daughters, Ayako, who has just returned from a year abroad in Thailand as part of her university studies. (I've already met the lovely Tomoko and the eldest daughter- whose name escapes me).
Ito sensei called me over to chat at lunch and I gingerly obliged, combeeny wanton ramen cup in tow. And she knew EXACTLY what she was doing. This gentle, by-the-by chat was the softening up. Moments after lunch lunch she told me her daughter was at school, well fancy that and why don't you come downstairs and meet her? So down we went, but not before I'd thrown on a cardigan, she'd thrown back her head, and laughed, and asked 'Ready?! Are you ready?' as if I were about to meet the prime minister and not her daughter. Introductions done, (ascertaining that our ages match, and names) we sat and chatted. Then Ito-sensei just...disappeared. For half an hour.
Last year Ito-sensei presented me with a piece of apple pie, wrapped in cellophane but within bearing evidence of a protracted journey from her house to my desk. Like it was just leftovers before it became a mini gift. It was a really nice gesture and I was touched, thinking it from Ito-sensei herself. Oh no. I scrutinised the post-it note she'd attached to it: 'To Guy Happy Birthday From Tomoko'. The message was crowned with two winged hearts and looked suspiciously like the hand of Ito-sensei herself. She smiled at me for the rest of that day.
But now Ito-sensei has retired and along with Special K and Shoji, she is another person I'm going to miss at Nanachu. Friday I went down to the nurse's office to say goodbye and with a graceful haste she scribbled out her telephone number and told me to visit her- and her family- any time.
Ito sensei called me over to chat at lunch and I gingerly obliged, combeeny wanton ramen cup in tow. And she knew EXACTLY what she was doing. This gentle, by-the-by chat was the softening up. Moments after lunch lunch she told me her daughter was at school, well fancy that and why don't you come downstairs and meet her? So down we went, but not before I'd thrown on a cardigan, she'd thrown back her head, and laughed, and asked 'Ready?! Are you ready?' as if I were about to meet the prime minister and not her daughter. Introductions done, (ascertaining that our ages match, and names) we sat and chatted. Then Ito-sensei just...disappeared. For half an hour.
Last year Ito-sensei presented me with a piece of apple pie, wrapped in cellophane but within bearing evidence of a protracted journey from her house to my desk. Like it was just leftovers before it became a mini gift. It was a really nice gesture and I was touched, thinking it from Ito-sensei herself. Oh no. I scrutinised the post-it note she'd attached to it: 'To Guy Happy Birthday From Tomoko'. The message was crowned with two winged hearts and looked suspiciously like the hand of Ito-sensei herself. She smiled at me for the rest of that day.
But now Ito-sensei has retired and along with Special K and Shoji, she is another person I'm going to miss at Nanachu. Friday I went down to the nurse's office to say goodbye and with a graceful haste she scribbled out her telephone number and told me to visit her- and her family- any time.
Tuesday 27 March 2007
Well I had fun
We'd just about finished a 45 minute give-away lesson in Nana Beans (a granny palace, for all intensive purposes) to a bunch of little people and it had gone pretty well. There was 'Cowboys', 'Please... eat a banana' and we'd even played 'Flyswatter Karuta'. The mothers, who had sat at the back of the room for the duration of the lesson, seemed to be happy. The man running the show seemed to be happy. He asked the kids, 'Wasn't that good?!' One of the little squirts, sat right at he front, piped up 'Maybe'. He asked again, 'Wasn't that fun?!' The same know-it-all punk just sat there, looked up and said 'Maybe'.
Monday 26 March 2007
A big place for a small mind
Tokyo! The big T, the big smoke, a place with bars and clubs and restaurants popping out of its ears, with buildings elbowing shrines shouldering giant plasma screens and NEON and people everywhere, a metropolis damn it!
This is big news to two boys from the countryside.
We saw a flicker book ad in an underground tunnel, a wall-mounted poster that made cricket sounds the length of the corridor, we saw hounds-tooth scarves and coats and jumpers, (I'd not known hounds tooth but now I do- Mike is a fashion guru and knows these things), we saw plum no cherry no some kind of blossom anyway its blossom, we saw girls and girls and girls to make the mind reel and palpitate for a week, girls going the other way on the escalators, girls on the pavements, in the shops, everywhere, we saw people with funny face paint and strange hair colours. We also saw 2 many Djs, but I wouldn't be able to tell you much about that, since I was pissed
as
a
fart.
This is big news to two boys from the countryside.
We saw a flicker book ad in an underground tunnel, a wall-mounted poster that made cricket sounds the length of the corridor, we saw hounds-tooth scarves and coats and jumpers, (I'd not known hounds tooth but now I do- Mike is a fashion guru and knows these things), we saw plum no cherry no some kind of blossom anyway its blossom, we saw girls and girls and girls to make the mind reel and palpitate for a week, girls going the other way on the escalators, girls on the pavements, in the shops, everywhere, we saw people with funny face paint and strange hair colours. We also saw 2 many Djs, but I wouldn't be able to tell you much about that, since I was pissed
as
a
fart.
Monday 19 March 2007
Sad Things
Special K told me today about the mill factories in Yamagata. Year-round soba is the pride and joy of Yamagata Shi, they boil it in kazuo broth and eat in cold or hot with tempura and a dozen other ways. Heat affects soba wheat adversely, so the mill factories in Yamagata run with slow grinders- that way the grinders don't get hot, the flour comes out good. That's the secret, Special K told me.
But the bigger secret is locked up in summertime. When the heat gets saggy enough to clot the flour, the grinders run so slow you can't see them moving. In fact, the grinders run as slow as the planes fly fast from Australia, belly full of soba wheat flour, all the way to Yamagata, Japan- but only in the summertime mind...
Special K said this was the locals' secret, kept to the locals, just like Edward and Tubbs' shop is only for locals. Special K has taken to The League of Gentlemen like, well, an Aussie plane to the air, to Japan. It's brilliant. I recommended Alan Partridge as essential viewing on her tour of British Comedy Gold.
She first told me about her penchant for the Gentlemen last Friday, in Mr Donuts, after the graduation enkai hosted by the PTA. I always wonder how I arrived in Mr Donuts whenever I find myself in Mr Donuts. She said thank you to me for all that she'd learnt from me, which I thought a little odd.
But then today it all crash-landed into perspective (if you'll allow me such a tenuous flight of the imagination). Just before Kasuya Sensei told me about the soba wheat flour and the Australian planes, the Kocho Sensei told us all about which teachers would be leaving. It happens every year. About 20% of the teaching staff from each school get shuffled to another school. Kasuya Sensei is among them; and she knew all along. Her contract with Nanachu was only for two years, this being her second.
The Great, The Good, The Unwaveringly Kind Special K is off!! She's going! Woeful news. What more is, my man the boy Shoji Sensei is being sent packing too!! All the way to Kaminoyama. Shoji who makes those wooden things around school, who makes everyone laugh. He grinned with surprise when he walked out of the Kocho-sensei's office. What a sad day. Why is it that the sad things are the most compelling to write about?
But the bigger secret is locked up in summertime. When the heat gets saggy enough to clot the flour, the grinders run so slow you can't see them moving. In fact, the grinders run as slow as the planes fly fast from Australia, belly full of soba wheat flour, all the way to Yamagata, Japan- but only in the summertime mind...
Special K said this was the locals' secret, kept to the locals, just like Edward and Tubbs' shop is only for locals. Special K has taken to The League of Gentlemen like, well, an Aussie plane to the air, to Japan. It's brilliant. I recommended Alan Partridge as essential viewing on her tour of British Comedy Gold.
She first told me about her penchant for the Gentlemen last Friday, in Mr Donuts, after the graduation enkai hosted by the PTA. I always wonder how I arrived in Mr Donuts whenever I find myself in Mr Donuts. She said thank you to me for all that she'd learnt from me, which I thought a little odd.
But then today it all crash-landed into perspective (if you'll allow me such a tenuous flight of the imagination). Just before Kasuya Sensei told me about the soba wheat flour and the Australian planes, the Kocho Sensei told us all about which teachers would be leaving. It happens every year. About 20% of the teaching staff from each school get shuffled to another school. Kasuya Sensei is among them; and she knew all along. Her contract with Nanachu was only for two years, this being her second.
The Great, The Good, The Unwaveringly Kind Special K is off!! She's going! Woeful news. What more is, my man the boy Shoji Sensei is being sent packing too!! All the way to Kaminoyama. Shoji who makes those wooden things around school, who makes everyone laugh. He grinned with surprise when he walked out of the Kocho-sensei's office. What a sad day. Why is it that the sad things are the most compelling to write about?
Saturday 17 March 2007
Muggins
Fooled, FOOLED I tell thee, I was fooled by a packaged brown towel, a small packaged brown towel too, not even so big as to warrant being called a 'Basin Towel' or a 'Kitchen Towel' or even 'Mouse's Towel', just a small, book-sized small brown small towel. Bastard thing.
It was morning, I was given it me by the secretary (who is usually the supplier of all things sweet and tasty and mostly edible-by which I mean that most of them are edible, not that most of them are edible). I was extremely hungry. Lunch was to be a slim bacon sandwich and nothing else. Times are hard. I'm saving.
And I naturally thought, when handed a brown towel folded in the shape of a cup cake, packaged especially well and held together with stickers from a bakery, 'Why, it looks like someone has gone to all the trouble of folding and packaging and sticking together with bakery stickers a small book-sized brown towel- but that would be silly, of course, haha, what fun! Of course, or course, there is a tasty treat lurking beneath the towel.'
Readers, there was no tasty treat. Fooled.
It was morning, I was given it me by the secretary (who is usually the supplier of all things sweet and tasty and mostly edible-by which I mean that most of them are edible, not that most of them are edible). I was extremely hungry. Lunch was to be a slim bacon sandwich and nothing else. Times are hard. I'm saving.
And I naturally thought, when handed a brown towel folded in the shape of a cup cake, packaged especially well and held together with stickers from a bakery, 'Why, it looks like someone has gone to all the trouble of folding and packaging and sticking together with bakery stickers a small book-sized brown towel- but that would be silly, of course, haha, what fun! Of course, or course, there is a tasty treat lurking beneath the towel.'
Readers, there was no tasty treat. Fooled.
Thursday 15 March 2007
Simply told
The other day the giant kerosene heaters were blasting like jet engines and the air in the gymnasium was filled with that heady smell. All of the students were arranged in class groups, sat on chairs, for the rehearsal of Fridays graduation ceremony. The rehearsal was mostly singing, although they also practised standing, sitting and bowing deeply in unison.
I grew bored quickly. Kasuya-sensei was nearby and we talked. I told her about Mondays exploits.
Max and I had driven up to Zao and near the car park got trapped behind a JCB that ploughed snow from the road to the side of the road. Big boulders of packed snow flaked off the bank at the side and tumbled back into the road as the JCB ploughed on. Just as we approached a T-junction (where the JCB would turn left and we would right), one of the passengers in the cabin turned and looked back at us across his shoulders. We recognized the car park attendant that we deal with each weekend, who sometimes crouches watching the car park entrance when he's not directing vehicles. He smiled at us a little strangely.
We parked, exchanged season tickets for lift passes and climbed aboard the first gondola. It'd carried down about a dozen passengers. At the gondola station half-way up the mountain, we encountered more skiiers and snow-boarders queuing for the very same gondola we'd taken up to ferry them down. We took a chairlift up further, that ran along a corridor of trees. Nobody else was on the chairlift. The seats in front swung from side to side before disappearing into the white gloom two pillars ahead and the wind howled and whistled on the other side of the corridor of trees.
These are the particulars of How We Faced Zao on Zao's Terms.
At the top of the chair, the wind hit us. Although it scoured snow from from the sloping bank ahead of us, it replaced snow in dunes on the path that would usually lead to the piste. Instead of skating leisurely along this path, we stepped like scuba divers on dry land. With each step we raised our legs high and with each footfall our skis plunged deep into the dunes of snow. The wind bracketed our ears and thoughts and the loneliness of the arctic explorer rushed into relief.
A little way ahead we discerned a figure in the white gloom. His steps were measured, consistent, efficient to our clumsy, stuttering and laboured progress. As we approached nearer we read 'Zao Ski Patrol' on the rear of his backpack, written in English. Eventually we drew level and shouted greetings at one another, above the roar of the wind. He asked a question to which Max replied, 'ENGLAND!', in Japanese. Soon after, the ski patrol man disappeared into a log cabin that'd lurched suddenly out of the gloom. In my mind I rolled over the question he'd asked Max again and again, as you would a boiled sweet in your mouth. Finally, I cracked it. 'Doko made iku'n desu ka' he'd asked. 'ENGLAND!', Max had replied. The ski patrol man didn't ask where we were from.
'WHERE ARE YOU GOING?' the ski patrol man had asked.
'ENGLAND!'
Kauya-sensei burst out laughing.
I grew bored quickly. Kasuya-sensei was nearby and we talked. I told her about Mondays exploits.
Max and I had driven up to Zao and near the car park got trapped behind a JCB that ploughed snow from the road to the side of the road. Big boulders of packed snow flaked off the bank at the side and tumbled back into the road as the JCB ploughed on. Just as we approached a T-junction (where the JCB would turn left and we would right), one of the passengers in the cabin turned and looked back at us across his shoulders. We recognized the car park attendant that we deal with each weekend, who sometimes crouches watching the car park entrance when he's not directing vehicles. He smiled at us a little strangely.
We parked, exchanged season tickets for lift passes and climbed aboard the first gondola. It'd carried down about a dozen passengers. At the gondola station half-way up the mountain, we encountered more skiiers and snow-boarders queuing for the very same gondola we'd taken up to ferry them down. We took a chairlift up further, that ran along a corridor of trees. Nobody else was on the chairlift. The seats in front swung from side to side before disappearing into the white gloom two pillars ahead and the wind howled and whistled on the other side of the corridor of trees.
These are the particulars of How We Faced Zao on Zao's Terms.
At the top of the chair, the wind hit us. Although it scoured snow from from the sloping bank ahead of us, it replaced snow in dunes on the path that would usually lead to the piste. Instead of skating leisurely along this path, we stepped like scuba divers on dry land. With each step we raised our legs high and with each footfall our skis plunged deep into the dunes of snow. The wind bracketed our ears and thoughts and the loneliness of the arctic explorer rushed into relief.
A little way ahead we discerned a figure in the white gloom. His steps were measured, consistent, efficient to our clumsy, stuttering and laboured progress. As we approached nearer we read 'Zao Ski Patrol' on the rear of his backpack, written in English. Eventually we drew level and shouted greetings at one another, above the roar of the wind. He asked a question to which Max replied, 'ENGLAND!', in Japanese. Soon after, the ski patrol man disappeared into a log cabin that'd lurched suddenly out of the gloom. In my mind I rolled over the question he'd asked Max again and again, as you would a boiled sweet in your mouth. Finally, I cracked it. 'Doko made iku'n desu ka' he'd asked. 'ENGLAND!', Max had replied. The ski patrol man didn't ask where we were from.
'WHERE ARE YOU GOING?' the ski patrol man had asked.
'ENGLAND!'
Kauya-sensei burst out laughing.
Tuesday 13 March 2007
Orga-ganized
What on earth was I thinking? I, after all, once put truth to the phrase 'Can't organise a piss-up in a brewery'. I actually couldn't. It was back at school and a charity auction, at which three dads (one of them mine) pooled their money and put up a hefty bid for the brewery tour lot. I was charged with organisation. Logistics (for what should have been enticing enough trip) tangled. So and so (I forget who) couldn't make such a day. But such and such had a driving lesson that afternoon. And whatshisface was dithering and hadn't gotten back to me. Whatshisface. Always dithering. The brewery tour conductor, more facial hair than man, grew impatient.
So why did I pick me myself to organise a night out with our Brand New Friends Reona and Kei and co.? (One of whom, when I bumped into her on the street last week, asked me if I remembered her- which led me to believe she wasn`t too inclined to commit me to memory. But that`s beside the point. They`re our New Friends and they`re Japanese).
I can`t speak Japanese, let alone write Japanese text messages. Each mail I get I forward to Sean for translation, who bounces it back Englished to me and then I reply in my broken Japanese to Reona or Kei. I`ve been tryin to arrange this night out for four days, intermittently. At what point does the effort strangle the incentive? About now it seems. The process continues...
So why did I pick me myself to organise a night out with our Brand New Friends Reona and Kei and co.? (One of whom, when I bumped into her on the street last week, asked me if I remembered her- which led me to believe she wasn`t too inclined to commit me to memory. But that`s beside the point. They`re our New Friends and they`re Japanese).
I can`t speak Japanese, let alone write Japanese text messages. Each mail I get I forward to Sean for translation, who bounces it back Englished to me and then I reply in my broken Japanese to Reona or Kei. I`ve been tryin to arrange this night out for four days, intermittently. At what point does the effort strangle the incentive? About now it seems. The process continues...
Sunday 11 March 2007
Tuesday 6 March 2007
Replacement
Kimura-san walked in with a sigh and a smile today. She's a secretary to the tea. She's been there forever. She gossips, she cackles, she does errands and she couldn't care for the authority (the Kocho-sensei), because without her it wouldn't function (without his green tea). She even sneaks off early when the teachers are all in a meeting in another room, late in the afternoon.
There was a visitor early today, earlier than Kimura-san, and K-T showed her into the secretary's office where she waited. K-T announced the visitor to Kimura-san when she bumbled through the door at her usual sort of time, which was when she gave that sigh while smiling.
There's a farewell party on Friday for Kimura-san because she has to retire, though she doesn't want to, or something. Didn't really understand that. And it was only after half the day had passed that I put two and two together and realised why this visitor was shuffling around behind Kimura-san everywhere she went, paying attention to everything she said and why Kimura-san sighed with that smile this morning.
There was a visitor early today, earlier than Kimura-san, and K-T showed her into the secretary's office where she waited. K-T announced the visitor to Kimura-san when she bumbled through the door at her usual sort of time, which was when she gave that sigh while smiling.
There's a farewell party on Friday for Kimura-san because she has to retire, though she doesn't want to, or something. Didn't really understand that. And it was only after half the day had passed that I put two and two together and realised why this visitor was shuffling around behind Kimura-san everywhere she went, paying attention to everything she said and why Kimura-san sighed with that smile this morning.
Sunday 4 March 2007
Conbeeny Man
He's just the kind of guy you want to take for a nice cup of tea and a game of chess. He's got some real thick metal parts in his teeth and a pair of square lens spectacles and every time I go in to the conbeeny he'll always reach for a plastic bag and every time I'll always stumble through one of my few stock Japanese phrases and wave away the need for a plastic bag. That's service for you. He's ready for the day I change my mind.
Recently, I've been ducking in late at night, craving something sweet. Lately I've even taken to trying some Japanese sweet things, dango sticks being my current squeeze (angko dango in particular). Conbeeny Man chuckles and says 'Amaimono' to me and I nod and we go through the plastic bag charade and I walk away with a smile. Tonight however, he went one step further and we actually talked, until another customer wandered in and walked up to the counter.
Conbeeny Man has travelled. He's once been to London with four friends (got that bit) and they couldn't find their hotel (here he gesticulated and looked around the ceiling perimeter in mock lost) and there was something about his heart he said but I'm pretty sure it wasn't any condition or trouble.
I want to record this guy. I want to take a picture of him at his counter with the cigarettes and the microwave in the background. I have more contact with him than I do some teachers at school. But maybe that would freak him out and then it'd be awkward and he'd never talk again except to offer a plastic bag and I'd eventually have to stop going there to avoid the embarrassment. Probably best left then.
Recently, I've been ducking in late at night, craving something sweet. Lately I've even taken to trying some Japanese sweet things, dango sticks being my current squeeze (angko dango in particular). Conbeeny Man chuckles and says 'Amaimono' to me and I nod and we go through the plastic bag charade and I walk away with a smile. Tonight however, he went one step further and we actually talked, until another customer wandered in and walked up to the counter.
Conbeeny Man has travelled. He's once been to London with four friends (got that bit) and they couldn't find their hotel (here he gesticulated and looked around the ceiling perimeter in mock lost) and there was something about his heart he said but I'm pretty sure it wasn't any condition or trouble.
I want to record this guy. I want to take a picture of him at his counter with the cigarettes and the microwave in the background. I have more contact with him than I do some teachers at school. But maybe that would freak him out and then it'd be awkward and he'd never talk again except to offer a plastic bag and I'd eventually have to stop going there to avoid the embarrassment. Probably best left then.
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