No Tomatoes

Dear Lucienne, or Mrs Day, it would begin… do you still have that tapestry I was interested in? Several years ago while finishing at RCA, I met the rather wonderful Lucienne Day, one of the foremost British designers that provided optimism after the war. Her graphical nature contrasted strongly with the paisley offered by those still clinging to William Morris… as you can tell, I no longer write for Weekender, though I am no longer paid by them despite using a few articles of mine. But I don’t want to turn into a grumble, I want to enjoy writing the first thing that enters my head again, so to that extent let me wander around my tapestral musings, deciding whether or not to buy Lucienne’s ‘Memory Game’. It’s tempting, though the Rolex on the bedhead behind reminds to watch my money. Mina suggested that I could at least enquire, and certainly upon seeing the wonderful stimulation of Milen’s house last night I feel that I too should make the most of unique options available to me, for that defines our homes and ourselves more than how much we buy off the peg. Or the watch store. 

I’m not quite sure how to link this to Fukuhashi, and I was originally going to refer to the Alias modelling course I have been doing.  The less said about that the better, but I suppose I should say more about the restaurant. Marty was still in Japan and wanted to return to Yakitori Alley –you can see where this is heading –while Mina was there to assist with directions. It was 20 minutes before they turned up, yet it was they who had sent the invitation to me as I was leaving HQ in Saitama. I like 20 minutes, it's a nice length of time, enough to have a sup of tea or make some coffee, check emails, or make a detour down a side street. It isn’t quite enough to finish a drawing for me, and as they eventually approached I had to down my sketchpad and scribble of the smoky alley.

Despite the omission of orphans I think Dickens would like this place. Wilde might suggest that we are all live in the gutter, but some of use look to the stars, yet in Yakitori Alley even if you look to the stars you see a gutter: there are ducts and pipes and wires and signs, as if having free-fallen from the sky and consequently wedged between the shacks. I almost wrote shops, but that implies electricity and modernity, though I suppose the single bulbs in the shabby lanterns have to run on something. Perhaps pork: I’ve noticed a few yakitori places now offering pork: it is addictive, as meat and fat alternate along the stick. I always place my teeth just after the fat as I pull it off to ensure the most unctuous mouthfuls. Meanwhile our slightly frosty host was still trying to yank us to sit indoors. We refused preferring to nurse our thimbles and swivel on our bar stools, clocking black mops of businessmen dotting the street until they are consumed by darkness and grey plumes drifting from the grills. I returned again with Sean for his birthday: nine years in Japan yet not once here. What a present.