What do you with a jet-lagged un-napped little turd in Tokyo? Get lost in Akihabara the evening that you land, that’s what. I should’ve realised when the sparkling lights and blazing billboards started to dim to a faint glow that we were walking the wrong way. She thanked me in the only way she knew how, by weak-limbed protest, fixed only by buying a gazillion gachapon and throwing some restorative ramen down her neck. 

New day, right? Started off thrilled with the breakfast sushi that’d she’d hand picked the night before, and I with the dearth of coffee on hand, grabbing all but the most important of things (clearly, the heinously expensive Instax film, and entire new outfit for Small), head off to meet tour guide Miki for the day. 

 

Did have a cheeky tootle around Ueno station under the careful guide of Miki, I did as well navigating here initially as I did finding a fucking shop sign in the ‘Electric Town’ last night, so seeing something pretty was a good find! 

I now know how to ask for these commemorative stamps, and I have a lost of stations to try. But I envisage station stamp hunting in the busiest city in the world to be as much fun as the 14190 steps that I’ve done today (yes I know that’s fuck all, but I’m fat and have had a whole load of time-space-continuum-slowing Japanese carbs by now). 

Off to Asakusa Temple now, paid respects, wound my way through 8171549501 other visitors, a good half of which were wearing kimono which Small loved so much she proceeded to squeal and point in glee. I suppose she didn’t throw up this time, the glares were almost as juicy however. 

We’d near enough cracked it on the Facey McFace bollocks, until she opened a ‘bad fortune’ which despite Miki explaining at length that that was good as it was an opportunity to leave anything and everything that takes your energy, at the Temple and then move up, up, UP!…. She was quite pissed off as it goes. It stuck. She wasn’t all that chuffed about burning her hand on plunging it into a still smoking pit of spent incense because she was so insistent on her independence either (note this, there’s a theme today). Just as well there was that giant pool of sacred water that was reserved exclusively for the ritualistic process of cleansing oneself prior to sparing a thought/prayer/wish at the Temple. 

To splash about in. Joy. I’m surprised she didn’t crack out a water bottle. 

We did have an amightly cute moment, somewhere between the breakfast sushi rage/burned incensed hands and lunch however. It’s a tradition for children aged 3, 5 and 7 to visit the Temple in October to give thanks to surviving what is/was perceived that be treacherous years for health in infants, age 7 marking the final. The lovely helpful Miki negotiated a photo of the two 7yr olds (her idea) to share a special moment. Small was shaking like a shitting dog, shy little thing when presented with the unprompted, crumbling into a heap of embarrassment. There was a smile in there, we caught it by sheer luck. 

Goshuin book bought, calligraphy hand painted within it, prayed to our specific Buddhas (Small-Sheep: will make a good leader and mine, Rabbit, to do good by imparting my knowledge- nearly choked on mine) bought a fair few good luck charms later then headed for food. 

Now Asakusa Temple has the glorious equivalent of a a Christmas market buzz, but covered in autumnal decorations, a billion people buying red bean paste pancakes and more mochi than. You can shake a stick at in the stalls/pop up shops lining the walk towards the Temple buildings, all crammed with tourist/folk/local trinkets and food nibbles. However having watched all of 3 Japanese cooking programmes, and clearly being an expert, it was time to put what I’d binged that one covid isolation day into good use. Okonomiyaki is like a pancake on steroids cooked by yourself in a far too public place to be able to fuck it up and glide along past your faux pas gracefully. 

Full to the brim with squid, spicy fish eggs, prawns, cheese and pork not too catastrophically cooked pancakes, Small finished full-bellied and nursing not the one but the three hot plate stings she gave herself clearly ignoring every single instruction to be careful near said hot plate- thankfully as extremely superficial (what is it about “don’t touch that, it’s hot and will burn you” makes someone need to touch it whilst looking you dead in the eye). It would’ve been easier had she not been hissing rage at my embarassingly audible discontent at her absolute disregard for her safety. This is however following spending the best part of five hours already clinging onto her in fear we’d get split up in the scrambles and was swiftly met with the loveliest kindest kid for an hour I’d never asked for. I was feeling a bit frazzled by this point from accidentally pressing the wrong button at the wrong time for the wrong body part and ‘reverse-pissing’ all over myself to the cute sounds of waves lapping at the beach- those waves didn’t mask shit. By the time I had cleaned the ginormous wet arse patch from my pants and dungarees, on my return Small had entirely forgotten about her little hotplate adventure, and there wasn’t a mark to be seen. 

Then we headed to Japan’s answer to a clean, glass floor boasting, Eiffel Tower-esque shiny tower to watch the sunset. Saying our goodbyes to Miki we headed up into the biggest throng of queuing people in a small space I’ve ever seen. I remember when chatting with the tour organiser thinking ‘do I want to do this, really?’ but then realised that there was the Pokemon Centre and a huge anime themed character goodies shop that would sweeten the load with Small (and myself), so off we hopped. 

The opportunities for commercial shite were endless, however we both felt this a worthy cause, tying our wishes with our ribbons the tallest structure in Japan. Kinda up there with the audio tour guides in the British Museum, but a definite must-do all the same. 

Japan is the kind of place that you can so easily pose next to something that makes you an instant fangirl, bit I rather quite adore this snap. 

By the time we’d explored every last corner of the character shop, and talked each out of buying every thing in said shop, we tried to hot-foot it to the Pokemon Centre she she could buy the bastard Pikachu she’s been chunking on about since touchdown in Haneda. It would have been a grand achievement, had we not gotten ourself entirely lost in said hunt, had a huge bag of shit that we didn’t need but truly wanted (that’s the theme of the shopping related decisions we’re making this week, both in agreement we’ll check with each other and then when said party is in agreement it’s fair play and all guns blazing for more kawaii crap then we can shake a bento box at. I should try this more in real life : “Small, do we really need this 10ft bouncy castle/house sized plushie” etc etc. 

Note however the night to day change in expression on falling into the authentic conveyer belt sushi restaurant that I’d been promising Small for years, to that post 20 plates between us in. It is honestly no wonder I’m so round, she was jabbing at that picture menu like a bat out of hell and ambitious rolls, wraps and mystery bowls were firing at us from left right angle centre. I’ve never felt quite so attacked by food, maybe this is the uprising that I need…. The teeny tiny sauce/seasoning packets sweetened the load and red bean filled, fish shaped doughnut completed that smile. It’s like Yo Sushi had a baby and became affordable for the masses. 

I’m rather certain quite frankly I must have missed Bowlby’s theory of raising highly spirited and independent kids in this massacre that is the next generation of grownups to be…. But that face, the joy of the days treats/gifts- anything for an easy life when it’s all you can manage to do to not misplace, incinerate or let them climb onto a sushi belt, feral or otherwise. 

She’s not that bad, I reckon she’s having a decent time, betwixt the foot fatigue, sheer gluttony and going MIA in a new country to the most unhelpful of times/whereabouts.

A pleasantly hot shower, scrub and laying the tattas on the table to dry out like the porcelain spaniels ears they resemble, in quite most ‘un-Japanese’ activitt I’ve achieved so far! 

You’d be forgiven for thinking that in paying a small fortune to pamper her, that I might have placated [bribed] for some decent frolics in anticipation of over 24hrs of being on the move. Fools. 

(That was fine as it goes, for the first 2hrs at least, after hissing my way through security) however-

It wasn’t her this time. When did she stop frothing at the chops over a mispronounced kids tv character and start reminding me “you’ve only yourself to answer to mummy, when you think about it properly”? When? … 

Never will I ever get cross at Small for saying “are we there yet?”. My arse is on fire, my back is grim and we’re not even halfway there yet. Fuck you, Putin. 

I’ve been up since 3am and I’m yet to get comfortable. It’s not the plane, that’s stunning and perfectly equipped comfort wise for what you’d expect in economy travelling a third turn rouund the world. It’s me.

 
Pressure areas checked and no redness or areas of concern noted. Fuck knows how. 
My lardy arse compressing the seats providing appropriate comfort levels for a normal sized derriere. Would it be the same in business class? More than likely, going off what shape Small’s memory foam neck pillow looked like after an hour under me. I’m grumpy and exhausted. It’s like water torture. With butt cramps. 

Let’s take it back a step, we arrived 2hrs earlier than the check in desk were taking on in Manchester. It’s like I’d shit the bed at 3am to get here for 5am, for the sole purpose of entertaining the check in desk staff (Thanks Jayne for that helpful heads up)…. Cheeky little snapshot of Helsinki- why are they obsessed with Moomins? Is this my 90s coming back to haunt me? – Little snackette and then rolling out of one airport, and into another. 

I’m nearly certain that the nasal snore spray (that only sees light of day when I’m crossing multiple times zones or on a promise) did fuck all, based on the sensation of snoring myself awake, whilst contorted into magnificent shapes like a fat overtired pretzel. I decide to take the brave step and ‘have a stand’ around the little bay of toilets to do my cheeky DVT exercises and try not to look up. I feel like I’m staring down the barrel of a plane shaped gun with a sea of faces watching me, well of course I can’t have a good stretch now. Sadly, I’m too round to achieve said stretches in the blue-lit, fancy buttons and butt-cleaning cubicle. 

Oh god, then it happens: I’m stood next to Mr Motivator. She’s cracking some right shapes, she looks like she only eats organic quinoa and runs 10k every day, I’m between admiration and sheer horror at my proximity to her with the juxtaposed sea of faces, and all I can think of is whether I could try me some of those spirit-fingered stretches to offset having bailed on the TEDs hours ago? I’d love to have been one of the passengers that’s slept the whole way, Small has lain sprawled across me a fair chunk of it, whilst I have achieved a decent catnap of around 4hrs total. 

I do shift work, so why am I so battered?
Is it something to do with the gastronomic feasts that keep presenting themselves at the oddest of times? I did enjoy that 3am muffin, however can’t help but be suspicious in its role in my upcoming and newly-fucked circadian rhythm. I’ll either rally, or pass out- yet to see. 

 
Small being rather more picky than I’d anticipated on the food, maybe I’ve not prepared her enough for the Japanese mystery food, we cook it at home a lot, but it’s never truly authentic is it? Still, an hour from landing, after having a reasonably amenable journey despite her throwing juice at me, wearing her yoghurt and upending my rucksack at least twice, we had our first altercation. We’d done brilliantly with the little phrases, made a (hopefully) good impression with little thank you gifts to the air hostesses, all was well until I tried convincing Small she was just being a snowflake with the chicken, rice and sauce. 

It was perfectly unimposing, yet she still felt the need to not-very-discreetly honk it back up straight back in the tray. Just one elderly woman saw the dramatic retches (but that’s more than enough!), I’m dying in embarrassment, I may as well have done a naked pirouette in the toilet waiting bay.

I’m confused, upside down, and entirely clueless as to how the hell the next 36hrs will pan out. And I’m doing it all in charge of a kid. 

But we got here. The feel of that bump on runway, it feels all the more real now. Small’s just asked if we’re in Japan. We absolutely are kiddo, we absolutely are!

I’m looking out the window. There’s a Pokemon plane parked up. I’m complete. 

Day 1

On a scale of 1 to 10, how would you describe your customer
experience?

Zero. I rate it zero. I’m not entirely certain whether I’ve unknowingly
infected the whole fucking planet, or whether it’ll be OK because I’ve had both
vaccines and I’m a healthcare worker. The whole Test and Trace process is REALLY DAMN CONFUSING. (Small disclaimer here to state I figured it out and have
followed the guidance appropriately).

Ten. Fucking. Days.

I’m fatter, I’m older and I’m enforceably  at home for what feels like at aeon,
self-isolating with the same little fuckbag that spurred this blog’s beginnings
all those years ago. And Jayne. Thankfully (for both of us), at her house. Poor
sod counts as a chunky contact, so she gets to sit at home crocheting with Netflix
carefully defrosting mystery meat and meals prepped in the middle ages, smug
with such esteemed meal planning that an Insta-Ho would want a selfie with.

I get to isolate with Barnsley’s answer to Kim Jong-un.

Anyone remember?

In other news, our first day at home has lead me to other musings.

Small is sat before me eating an entire box of grapes, I’m
secretly wanting to shout at her for being so frivolous with the living green
things. Does she not realise we’re mere days away from eating the ‘freezer veg’?
That we’re one badly thought-out snack from having to reconstitute the sultanas?
Do I regret getting cocky with the bread dough ingredients yesterday and
wasting both a) and apple, and b) a can of cider? Yes of course I fucking do.
But it’s easier to scowl at a 6 year old greedily upending the sodding grapes
secretly cursing the fact that I have no snacks of any level of reasonable
entertainment.

A fortnight ago I gave a bestie’s 18-year old bottomless pit
all of the carbohydrates unfit for non-teenage consumption. I waved the hotdog
flavour Pringles away with not even a spared thought. How stupid was I, that
shit is practically real-estate. I could have traded this on the black market
for antibiotics, a prosthetic limb, all sorts. I could have re-lived my student
days and turned this into a fucking food group?! (Can we please have a moment
of silence for the kidney bean crumble of 2010?)

Job one: Find Batteries. 108.9kg. That’s about 99,000IU of tinzaparin. I’m pleased however, I thought I was 120kg. Every cloud. 108.9kg of course is rather large. I’ve spent the last year or two
genuinely making peace with my shape, size, lumps and bumps. In other word,
fat, loud and proud. Self-love doesn’t always start with a bath (because that’s
still upended in the spare room) and a glass of something pretentious in a
fluted glass for social media purposes. Sometimes it’s about loving the whole
person, or at least trying to learn to. That’s been my mission for a couple of
years now. Isn’t that a much more lovely way for describing an inability to see
your own twat in the shower?

That said, I genuinely felt like I was about to bring
a delivery bed crashing down when perching aside it getting ready to examine
someone recently (I’m used to apologising for the impromptu noises upon bending
for more organic reasons), so I cracked out the scales. What’s that? I don’t
exceed the weight limit for both a birthing ball, and the rubber dinghies
at water parks? (not that I’ll be visiting one anytime soon, from both a viral perspective and the less recent event of having to return a swimsuit I got stuck in and ripped open- the quest continues). I could possibly travel with more than one person in a Spanish lift? Life is fucking good. However, I’m feeling about as wholesome as re-warmed
donner meat on a Sunday morning.

So I have a theory. No Just Eat. Being forced to stay at
home and eating those things that get shoved further and further back on the shelf,
until you’re having to decide whether you’re barbecuing the cat or making a chickpea……
coconut…… mystery-freezer-veg curry. I may see if this is a thing.

I highly doubt I’m likely to be having an emotional Love
Actually style reunion with the aforementioned body parts as a result of
painstakingly eating vile food but it will be an interesting experiment.

 

We have a list. I feel like this has all the momentum of one
of those companies that save up your Christmas shopping money all year, to go
bust on December 1^st, but we may as well try. A favourite was Hide
and Seek. I shall hide. She may seek. I’ll be rocking in the cellar like a shitfaced
Harry Potter.

I have 10 bottles of wine, 9 toilet rolls and two packets
of fags. Should be fun.

 

 * Written in retrospect due to lifestyle acuity *

Begin retrospective note call it, 2019 maybe?

Well that was a marvellous shitstorm wasn’t it? Since the long-since penned journey of our Turkish misadventures, at least. I think I’d rather be navigating those elegant headless mannequins, having actually had to adult once more. It leaves a peculiar taste in one’s mouth.

What’s happened since?

1. I’ve proven myself worthy of having responsibility to be registered with a certain governing body.

I mean, really it was primarily about having the opportunity to dress like a drunken Scottish rainbow had thrown up over me, had a fight with the reflection then sent me on a crash course after tear arsing it across a platform shaking a Dean’s hand, to what can only be described as finishing school dressed in blues. I didn’t deck it this time; the graduation, not the latter (depending on who you may ask).

2. I’ve definitely managed to piss a lot more people off than actively having tried to, but more on that at some point later. Not (exclusively) paid adulting related, may I (blatantly self-disclaimer) add.

This wee point barely necessitates a discussion, it’s more or less a given. Presenting to you the love child of an angry opinionated gobshite centaur with the goddess of the social foot-in-mouth. Typifying the good grace with which I perpetually navigate the social nuances of barely giving a shit about exchanging pleasantries. In fact, that’s probably enough on that.

3. Made a splendid decision to professionally adult on the moon. And other equally as well thought out life changing decisions.

I’m being dramatic. A tad. Safe to say I think I was good a fit as that dress that I last fit in aged 20, and held onto for the succeeding 12 years. Just to be sure. The kind of dress that would raise more than an eyebrow were you to be stopped by the plod, only made for the BMI that didn’t break the hearts and souls of generations of Boots weighing scales patrons (those fecking machines!). Made for the actual BMI 18s, rather than the backwards body dysmorphic “it’ll fit me again I’m sure”.  Yes, quite like that dress. Only it was with sadness I ditched my daily moon commute, due to having some very fond times. I met some corking souls with belly laughs bigger than both my belly and my laughs, and you don’t ever lose touch with those beauties, especially the ones that have nailed your brew just so. The dress just did not quite fit.

Things that didn’t make it onto the 2019 list, but still happened:

• I did an actual human relationship.
•70 more unanticipated house plants, total count 200ish
•Michael the creepy charity shop baby bust
•Small still alive, go me!

More on my discoveries, delights and shambolic decision making in my next post. You lucky wee prawns 😂

*end retrospective note*

Well, strictly speaking for the pedants out there, the tail end of December (28th to be precise).

Picture this, the gluttonous after festive period where you don’t know what day or even month it is. You only know you’re not due back in work yet. I jest, student midwifery is relaxing to the holiday period as a naked streaker in a lion pit…. happily putting away the to-do list until the 3rd load of Christmas pots have been soaked for another day. There is wine. Lots of wine. And a debit card.

So here I am. In France. With an over stimulated over tired (and quite frankly far too fidgety for the metal bunk bed I’m laying perilously underneath) Small. A shit ton of shopping in the hope that I shan’t spend a small fortune in Disneyland tomorrow, and a snow white dress placed just so. Because I did really well at the not feeding into this crypto-facist-fake-forced-stereotyped-gender Disney princess shit… (Wifeyo, 2019 -ta Rhi!)

Not quite the comedy of errors as my last drunken holiday buying escapade, we may only hope.
Time will tell.

She managed a pose or two at least, and 15000 steps before turning in, 3 trains, many silent ‘thank yous’ to the Giffgaff gods for my data and GPS support, I shan’t be taking any tired legs shit when we got the motherland on Sunday. Enough to know that my shoes are crap and I’d have done better strapping some tyres to my tired cankled feet for the next 5 days.

Bon nuit. (I’m being classy because I’m annoyed at myself for not being awake enough to sample the mystery wine I slipped in the basket earlier).

I’m preempting Technicolor nightmares already….