The trials of it.

Today's blog entry is unfortunately another account of the toils of the hungover, myself in particular. I am well aware that this blog appears to contain many references to alcohol, and therefore I believe I am running certain risks. For there is nothing more tedious than listening to an obtuse braggart as he recounts tale after tale of beer-fuelled antics. With this in mind, I will move on.

Yesterday's enkai was a typical episode of traditional Japanese food and all-you-can-drink alcohol. Enjoyable as it was, I made the critical error of drinking until 3.30am on a weekday. I rose at 7am this morning, wrenching myself from a delicious slumber and aiming for my bicycle. I'm ashamed to admit that the 45 minute bike ride to work was not exactly a sober one. No doubt my mother, who reads this blog, will be horrified (don't worry, dear mother, I only crashed twice). At school, I compounded my ill-judgement by forgetting the piece of paper on which I had written my farewell speech in Japanese. So at 8.26 am, as my contused brain was cowering inside my head, I was called upon to address my colleagues in Japanese and express my gratitude, admiration etc. I did my best, but I suspect the group was wondering just what the hell the bleary eyed foreign tramp who reeked of whiskey was actually saying. Thankfully, as I had been told about this speech in advance, my nerves just about held together.

Shortly afterward, at the closing ceremony, I was again called upon, this time before the entire school, to address the students, again in Japanese. I was taken by complete surprise. I considered the possibility that it was a treacherous plot to publicly humiliate me, but I quickly realized how self-indulgent and outlandish that was. So I took to the stage and told the students something or other. I kept it short (but not sweet). Later, I was told by a teacher that they "preferred my first speech". In Japanese culture, this means "your second speech was a bucket of shit, what were you thinking??". Nevertheless, I survived and had no classes, allowing time for a partial recovery.

After I finished today and had said my farewells, I set off home confident that the worst was behind me. I found myself thinking about the man whose book I still had not returned (for details see this post: http://theuncannyvalley.blogspot.com/2006/01/modest-proposal.html ) because he happens to live near the school I was at today. I was wondering if in fact I would ever give the book back back to him, seeing as I wouldn't be going that way anymore. So when I came around the corner and saw him picking his nose at the side of the road, I was rather surprised, to say the least. I haven't seen the guy once since that first encounter, and he chooses my very last day at school to happen to stop and pick his nose as I passed! What are the odds?

Initially, he didn't see me. I desperately wanted to blaze past in a whirl of dust, thus avoiding him completely. But just as I was girding myself for a burst of acceleration, he turned my way and spotted me. I saw upon his face, in this order: recognition, recollection, suspicion, determination. He flagged me down. He smiled a polite but disgruntled smile. I decided that my only escape was to confuse him and move on as quickly as courtesy permitted. So I began apologizing for not returning his book. I feigned genuine concern and began to speak very quickly and use difficult English words. Faster and faster. Longer words, complex grammar, metaphors, allegories, the works. 40 seconds in and I was babbling excitedly and totally incoherently and he was dumbfounded. Seeing the utterly baffled expression on his face, I seized my opportunity and made a hasty excuse. I had to parry his blurted "I want to meet you often" with a quick "By the way, how is your daughter?". He barely had time to answer that she was doing just fine. Great! I sped away, and never looked back. You're never getting that book back, pal...