Our Goshuin book is lacking some love, so we set to that with a short trip out to Nikko, about 2hrs from Tokyo and a beautiful mountain Village that hosts some beautiful temples and shrines, specifically the Togushu complex. 

Having bartered decent behaviour from Small by way of offering up (yet another) Akihabara for a tootle afterwards in the hope that we find the right street, we cracked on with our three part journey to Nikko. She was a hell of a lot more awake than the day before, but the bar had ben set quite low. I acquired some ‘coffee jelly’ by mistake, and spent an embarrassingly long time figuring out how to change that jiggling caffeinated almost sentient substance into something drinkable. Turned out I just needed to shake it. Obviously- I was pre-coffee parenting. It was the equivalent of putting a Mensa test in the way of getting a place in junior school, just cruel.

Having swiped in at the station and made our way to Tokyo, we hopped on the bullet train packed up with the cutest bullet train bento box for Small and a giant tempura prawn to add a bit of leverage to the element of peace. She has by now figured out that if she so much as whispers loudly enough for someone other than me to hear her, it’s horrifically not the done thing, and is subsequently sat with puppy eyes, gesticulating with more theatrical pizazz than a RADA dropout, glaring at me. 

I still don’t understand how you’re allowed to eat on the Shinkansen but not on a train that’s a same time frame, but it doesn’t matter, it was all gone within ten minutes, before we’d even pulled off if I’m completely honest. Small naturally frothing at the choos anticipating the sensation of being catapulted into deeper space with the GForce of Tom Hanks crashing down to earth, but ultimately, whilst fast, it didn’t feel very ‘bullet-ey’. And why would it I guess, can you imagine the whiplash? We got there like hot shit off a shovel however and before we knew it arrived at Utsunomiya, connected and landed in Nikko. 

Now, we’re in the hills, it’s fresh, the air smells and tastes incredible and I can’t help but think that the spring water we’ve been buying from out local shop that Small insists ‘smells of sushi’ is in fact just pure as fuck and filtered through nature’s answer to a top of the range Brita filter. It doesn’t smell of fish, mind, and it’s entirely implausible she’s capable of racial slurs, so I’ll take that as her having a capacity to distinguish between tap water and fancy shit. There’s hope yet. Used extemely broken Japanese asking about where the bus was to the shrine complex in the mountains, because fuck that and we land. 

It’s primarily Japanese folk, and I was relieved that there wasn’t the abundance of tourists fucking the atmosphere up with their loud talking cheeseburger snaffling attitudes, until I released that sans the burgers, I’m the tourist. We did everything as all should be however, so much as a fat blue haired English girl and her hyperactive gobshite kid can, I guess. 

I was glad of having frantically posted on Reddit asking for recommendations about suggestions for our tiny window of opportunity to see everything, having scrapped the chance to go an hour further from Nikko centre to a traditional Edo themed amusement centre. No time for that when there’s all the pretties to see! 

Kudos to Small, she eventually said she was glad we were doing something special together. We did the Futusoran Jinja, Togushu, Yomeimon gate and the Nikkosan Rinnijo, passing by the sleeping cat sculpture (which we both absolutely adored) and battling the 207 steps to the resting place of a highly respected Shogun, Tokugawa Iegasau. 

Following the advice of Reddit (the Netmums of travel advisors) and after as many temple visits as we could muster, we headed for what I’d hoped would be a leisurely stroll down the 634m above sea level ‘hill’ to the station, Small gingerly nursing a finger that she burned sticking it into a pile of burning incense while I had my back turned (theme, much?!). Stopping by *only* for a souffle mousse pancake and a cheeky visit to pick up some 90 year old art prints, we found ourselves twatting it down to make it to the only train that would make out connection for the bullet train. The views and the mountain air had been delightful, but all good things must come to an end, I guess. And I realised that aiming to get down a steel hill of 1.5m in 20 mins laden with all the temple charms and arty luggage wasn’t my finest adult calculation. 

Very full of pancakes might I add as it goes by this point; Tell me now that those sweet red bean paste pancakes are filled with anything different to that kidney bean crumble I made as a very poor very broke student of 22ish? Same delicious shit, different context! 

Small being unable to discern between a normal and a bullet train, she was convinced we had three of the Japanese spaceships to get, so was extremely happy. However sitting in the middle of Utsunomiya station frantically looking for our lost tickets, it’s fair to say that I was not. 

She’d remembered my promise of Akihabara by this point, and stuffing my bag to enable avoiding a trip home to dump our haul we headed to the electric town with minutes to spare on retrieving our ‘lost’ tickets. 

It was so fucking shiny! Threw ourselves into the first shop we came across, I found myself in a bizarre google translate dance whereby it eventually transpired after 30 minutes that I was signing up to a delivery based pre-order scheme. Upon ditching and apologies to Small for the lost time acutely aware everything shut in one hour, we headed to a figure shop. Second hand and very cheap figurines of Japanese pop culture characters, we were both in our elements until Small’s bubble of innocence almost burst when finding myself having to explain away the nude provocatively posed little plastic minxes and swiftlys exiting. 

The fatigue has kicked in by now, I’ve promised her a little tickle at one of the hundreds of arcades, bags full of plushies that I know I’ll regret trying to pack and feeling sorely guilty for my mum-splaining of aforementioned naked female anime figures. 

Turned out I was quite ok at the tactical grabbers, coming away with another three huge teddies I have no fucking space for, and we went on the hunt for food. 

It’s 10pm by this point and we’re both feeling the burn we ended up falling into a fish restaurant. Noticed the grill on the table and remembering her last adventures with cooking her own food, (fucking brilliant), we’d committed to the seating and it was last chance saloon…. Notwithstanding my not-very-Japanese dimensions were sure to make it difficult to snake my way out on a hurry, so we made peace and ordered. We were presented with Dave and Lisa, the tiny fish, to Small’s great delight, until Lisa’s head fell off and I realised I didn’t know the Japanese for ‘please tell me what the fuck I’m meant to do with this?’. All things in, full bellies were had and we traipsed to Akihabara station to get home. 

She was pleased with her haul, and I had a cold can of Asahi waiting for me, all was well. 

Chuck a couple of Totoros at a kid and you’re laughing, it would seem. She’s buggered off to the room to unpack her sizeable haul while I have a cheeky 5 mins in the fresh air. Have to admit, it would seem that underneath all the transient rage, I’ve got a decent and extremely sensible seven year old in my pocket here. Not that I’d have said that an hour ago upon watching her mimic the ‘Ninjas’ that were serving her food, with more than a tickle of the theatre that went along with it, but more on that later.

This morning, we peeled ourselves out of bed more than a little bit fucked after a very late night meticulously organising all her gacha to head to the very pretty Mitaka and visit the Ghibli museum.

On the promise of a decent breakfast once I’d got us across the city and hoping (in vain) that there’d be coffee before our adventure began, we made it. An underground, overground and a bus later feeling rather smug with myself might I add, we landed in the gorgeous town to find it was going to be a sneaky onigiri round the side of the shop. To someone to whom eating is as ritualised as breathing, the not eating in the street thing is a real killer. What do you mean I can’t stuff my face with foreign deliciousness in public for the works to see?

Not that it was a bad thing, the spicy beef bun that I snaffled in secret presented more than a mild threat to my digestive system (thank the universe for the background noise buttons on these ‘ere fancy toilets!). I was more than focused on having to haul a knackered grumpy seven year old through Tokyo first, painfully regretting my lack of parental insistance that she’d gone to bed at a reasonable time. She took the best part of 3hrs to pull round, which she achieved around the same time she first cast eyes on the museum exterior, wide glassy eyes in wonder at the oncoming treasure that is all things Miyazaki and Takahata.

The strict ‘no photography’ rule is something that I initially couldn’t understand, but having come across a Redditor getting roasted for snapping the exhibits, the only pics I can justify are the ones that made my interior design synapses ping like a motherfucker- so much wood, watercolour and stained glass (featuring Kiki, Totoro to name a few!!!! Every corner had little creative surprises that reminded me of Mouseman woodwork back home.

She was transfixed by the Robot statue outside, one of the few things we could full blown tourist over, insisting that it was ‘in actual fact mummy’ an Antony Gormley and ‘how amazing was it that the Japanese people respect his work so much’ – (I let it slide).

The cafe was cute but rammed, though was worth it to watch Small neck some roast barley ‘coffee’ and then have this enjoyably visible dissonance as to where she could dispose of said frothy dishwater in a way which didn’t draw unnecessary attention -it was like watching Simba eating bugs in Lion King- still, I’m proud she didn’t yak it back up into the cup, Domesticating, and all that. I guess some parents are proud when their darling little spawn ‘graduate’ reception, write their own name and get invited to every kid’s party, I’m just happy when mine doesn’t run into glass doors or bang into ‘not-things’. Perfect I’d say.

But she acquired a fuck tonne of Ghibli stuff, after I made it extremely clear that she isn’t getting much from Santa this year. Unless that is, that I can find a shop selling something Princess Kaguya from a Ghibli shop, and no I didn’t fancy the thought of trekking across Tokyo for (wait for it….) the one magnet they do. Now that’s a very sentimental Ghibli for Small and I, so we settled for dust bunnies, multiple Totoros and other things that I enjoyed buying but live in the suitcase until we come home.

The day wasn’t without the odd mishap however, with Small managing to lose our IC transport cards at least twice, traversing the extremely busy rush hour Ueno station only to have the extremely kind locals chasing us down with a gentle ‘sumimasen’- (why the hell didn’t I bring any little packaged up thank you gifts today?). And the later ‘douitashimashite’ when I accidentally careered into an innocent man’s leg on pivoting on the spot to look for the extremely verbal but woefully absent Small in th gift shop. I’d have pulled it off had I realised at the timetime and not just now that I should have been saying ‘gomenasai’ and not ‘you’re welcome’, talk about a lingo faux pas, no wonder the poor fucker looked shell-shocked at my badly babbled sociopathy. 

I may have accidentally found myself in the Japanese equivalent of Poundland, B&M and The Range’s genetically ambiguous lovechild, Daiso 100. I’ve you’ve ever been lucky enough to supervise me on a particularly sensory day on a shopping trip to any of these places, you’ll understand quite how determined I was to ensure that at I filled at least one of the extra 2 suitcases we’re coming home with stuff from here. For context, Google today shows 1¥ as the equivalent of 59p. And 99% of what we’re coming home with had cost just that. I still however managed to spend like I was TKMaxxing and crammed £79 worth of cheap but not shit stuff into the oversize nana shopper (reminiscent of those red blue and white checked ones we all saw in our childhoods), getting a huge discount on a giant teddy which then went in with the fucks I didn’t give to the struggle I never anticipated lugging said bag and then two further ones across town, to our dinner reservation.

The food products alone, all the base products that I simply cannot get at home. Bags and bags of unidentifiable dead dried things and miso for miles that I can make gorgeous stocks/soups etc with. We both thoroughly enjoyed playing with our newest acquisitions this evening.

Picture the aforementioned amount of purchased goods, we’ve survived rush hour subway, and have an extremely easy guide to our dinner reservation at the Ninja Restaurant in Asakusa. There was an entire page in our guide on how taboo being late would be to this, on top of the cultural suicide that is doing this in Japan ever, so I twatted is as much as a fat bird with a shipload of shopping can, before realising I had a kid in tow who was slogging the bag of food and glass bottled ingredients up and down the platforms with each step getting slower and slower, I tried to encourage her in the way that I figure people perceive health promotion advice from people with certain outward appearances. We both knew that the anxiety-induced cold upper lip sweat had more than adequately shifted into a full blown workout that made my body scream in protest as I was practically bathing in my own exertions running up (yes, running….) the 100 something steps that lay before me. I’d relieved Small of her burden thus she watched on with great amusement, little bastard.

It was 16.55, I’d run with said bags through the busiest crossing I’ve seen yet, upt down and around the same whole corner of a department store that housed Ninja restaurant 4 whole times, before I found it. I mean I know it’s basis, but I practically dropped a lung in my attempts to find the bastard.

We were shown into a dark room, my eyes squinting in the darkness in the way they only do once you hit your 30s regardless of whether you wear gigs or not, and stumbled through a fucking maze. Yes, a maze, guided one on one with a ‘ninja’ who made us jump through spaces, over fires etc into the (unsurprisingly still fucking pitch black to me) dining area. Small loved it, yet I found myself daydreaming about whether there’s a special reward for having a heart attack in a themed cafe, in the same way that one usually gets free shopping for life when your waters break in a supermarket?

We had plate after plate after plate. Small got bolder and bolder until she eventually started lovingly harassing the ninja staff with her call of battle. I had to smirk, she held her own and got into the magic of the green-flamed, smoking, sparkling ‘treasure’ dishes. She quite literally got into as well, despite many a reminder of basic table manners, she went on to digitally explore most of my plates by man handling before some were even out of their box (anyone else’s kid a dickhead when they’re hungry?) I ate ‘big-plate-little -food’ grub for the first time without getting pissed off, it was delicious. And I was full, despite sharing mine with the bottomless pit that announced she didn’t feel fed enough still. I disregarded through the first few whinges based on the portions at school dinner that she orders making Oliver’s Twist’s scran look like an all you can eat buffet, but she persisted, so we shared.

She didn’t seem that chuffed with the offer of the clam part of the clam chowder. I wonder if throwing up a kilo of mussels still hits hard?

I forgot to mention Derek! Please forgive me, but couldn’t help but be reminded of my late Grandfather, minus the vacuous nothingness beneath the samurai gear with the bristle brush style upper lip moustache. He didn’t say much, just soaked it all in. Derek sat between Small and I, she picked a few fights with him, but he never rose to it. 

We navigated (myself rather blindly still being hyper aware of how bloody dark it was) to quite possibly the fanciest toilets going, to bail on the 40 min journey across 3 stations and a lost fuck to get home by hopping in a taxi. It was quite nice actually, as you’d expect for a £20 sit down, having the local sights being pointed out, feeling incredibly tiny seeing the huge high rise corporations towering above us in the business district, and having the real Akihabara pointed out to us (it was indeed very well lit up, and I gather we walked a good mile in the wrong direction the other night having seen where I should’ve gone). 

Off to Nikko to see the grand shrines and temples, I’m hoping she plays nicely. I can’t imagine a point where I could walk up the pebbled footpath (representing walking through water to aid release of any impurities before calling on the spirits) without dredging her back from running over any sign staying keep off/out, pissing someone off with her profound cheekiness, or just deeply disrespecting the sacred ground upon which she stands, usually achieved by caterwauling like the banshee she is. I guess if nothing else we’ll get to ride the bullet train, even if she’s got the romanticism and spiritualism of a rapidly evacuated dulcolax, making it difficult to fully submerse in the experience.

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….