Michael likes talking loudly on trains. Often he will publicly question Monkey's sexuality, or make dubious claims to his own bedroom prowess. At other times he will gesture wildly to a female on the train, and exclaim something along the lines of 'Fck! That's a hot MILF!'

A few days ago, on a full carriage where we were crammed like sardines, he spotted a man next to him watching TV on his mobile. 'Hey I get to watch TV!' he shouted while looking over the man's shoulder. The man paused, turned his head slowly and stared at Michael, their noses almost touching.

Behaviour such as this ensures we garner plenty of attention whenever we travel on public transport.

'I've got a feeling... that tonight's gonna be a good night.'

At Ryokan Kangetsu, having some good innocent fun. Later on that night, Monkey cried.

'Who want some Wang!'

With Michael (as Bruce Lee) at Yoyogi Park. It was rather disturbing to see old men closely photographing young girls dressed as anime characters at the weekly cosplay gathering.

 

The story of Mini Monkey and the Giant Fingers. Later on that night, he cried.

 

'Puck you sir!'

Takeshita Alley, Harajuku. This was the start of a long shopping adventure, dicktated by the lure of department stores and tightly packed shops.

 

'Let's go shopping, fags!''

Monkey blew about $600 AUD that night. Michael walked away with 11 T-shirts and XS boxers, but didn't blow quite as hard as Monkey.

Currently we are residing in a small ryokan, away from the hustle and bustle of the metropolis.
It is very peaceful here, and the sound of swaying branches are only interrupted by the shrill screams and racous laughter of Michael.
We have seen sumo wrestlers, fended off waves and waves of young girls in Shibuya, spent 3000 yen trying to win a $5 soft toy, and climbed up ten storeys in every anime shop in Akihabara searching for Michael's hentai figurines. We have tried all sorts of different food (such as chashu ramen from Shinjuku, and chashu ramen from Shibuya), and walked hundreds and hundreds of miles within the shops and streets of the city. (You should see how toned our legs are - go on, I know you want to.)

We are getting along smashingly of course. Last night I dreamt that Marco was being aggravating so I tried to punch him, but instead I woke up when I hit my hand on the bedframe.

After a long and arduous plane journey, we finally arrived in the land of the rising sun. And sunny it is! We arrived on a hot and humid day (30C), the sun scorching our blackened faces and making our jeans stick seductively to our inner thighs.

Yesterday was spent perusing the alleys of Shinjuku, eating chicken ass skewers (courtesy of Marco), and watching Michael play Street Fighter.

The highlight though was the Park Hyatt Hotel, which was where Lost In Translation was filmed, although none of us really knew what that meant.
On the 52nd floor there we sipped cocktails, discussed financial markets, took in the magnificent night views of the Tokyo skyline and got uproariously drunk - well, I did anyway...

 

I'm not very excited, strangely; well, no more excited than say, if I'd won a prize to spend the night with Stephen Hawking discussing black holes. As a kid I would lie awake in bed for hours, anticipating tomorrow's road-trip with my family. Somewhere along the way that sense of wonder got lost - was it high school? I only want life-changing moments, m'lord.

My clothes and things are strewn haphazardly across the floor. (Have I written this cliche phrase before?) They remind me of broken things lying by the roadside. All this baggage I'm taking over there; if only this could be a metaphor for all the baggage I've accumulated in my short life so far. I'd take all of it - the whole plane-load - dump it in another country and return, weightless.

When the plane rumbles down the tarmac, the wheels leave the ground and we're rising, rising higher and higher, the houses becoming smaller and smaller, I'll be free for a moment in my life.

Spring is here. Following a semi-disastrous Friday night, I spent the better half of Saturday sleeping, the tightly-drawn blinds across my window barely allowing the sunlight to make an impression in the dim room. By the time I was lucid enough to step out the front door it was already dark, and a small yellow globe of a moon sat smugly above the houses across the street. I drove over to meet Fob for dinner, my stomach running on empty. 'I'll cook you a nice dinner,' she promised, but when I arrived I found her sprawled on the couch, not a plate of food in sight. In shock, I passed out.
Resuscitated by a quick meal outside, we drove down to the beach and walked along the foreshore. The wind had picked up, and beside us the sea had gone mad, frothing and foaming like a deranged animal. Fob went on about her usual crazy theories and ideas while I nodded absently, mesmerised by the advance and retreat of the waves. We turned back at the end of the beach and returned home, talking about the future until we both fell asleep.

Sunday, Father's Day. I started the morning with a run around the bay with Bean, training in preparation for the run in two weeks' time. I'm trying to enter as many races as I can this year - this upcoming event will be my third, with one more to come. We huffed and puffed our way around the course, the sun beating down on our backs. It was a close finish, but I took first place as usual.
The rest of the day was spent grocery shopping and cooking, like any respectable housewife. I thought I'd make something special this time, but I overcooked the noodles and the strands were transformed into glutinous lumps of flour which the whole family was forced to endure.

Two weeks now till I head off.
Life would be easy, blind.
I need a year of debauchery.