No Tomatoes

This has happened before: an open afternoon where my hand turns to keys not stylus. The huge left-collar of my Vivienne Westwood shirt wilts upon my breast, pink trews and white shoes forelorn. Ito-san, Honda’s new president, is in the studio and we are confined to desks. I would create, but energies have emerged rational recently as I formulate a strategy for my career. Nothing sinister, mind, it’s just that after the abrupt terminations earlier in the year I have not been as focused, one eye on the managers in case I should be pushed as well. It’s stressful being a contractor, and the recent influx of Japanese staff and increased meetings held in Japanese only exerts the isolation. Of course, there are the Americans, but tis hard to set them as rivals in competitions when my sights are set farther afield. I think Mina’s would be too were she not snagged by her malarious nape stinging her movements. An occasional puff of frustration tells me its time to move on, though we had few moments to discuss while in prison.

Keen-readers/Mum may recall the Cave recently written here. It follows then that the gaol-themed Lock Up appeals too to Satomi, and marks the fork where I, no we, no less, for Mina concurs, must part in dinner dining. I’m struggling for words. Perhaps the rubber square set into the floor, and metronomic electrocuted-dummy will better convey the shitty beginnings to this night, though I think what I said at the time was ‘wouldn’t be awesome if the food was great’. It wasn’t, and had the trough not been dug by the Cave last week, Lock Up would be a strong contender for detailing a new low.

Actually, it was okay. Simple, banal, tacky –but acceptable, still. Until I spotted a cockroach planted inches in front, courting my napkin. It is times like this that one may gauge the measure of a man, the one who might, in the face of injustice, the elderly seat occupied by youth, say ‘hang on’ and make motions to correct. Thus it was that I clambered onto the torso next to me (thankfully Mina), while she drew the lethal, or at least hostile blow with a beer mat. A Gallic snigger traversed the low table, till I observed the brown bug scuttling to his elbow. Stefan imitated my recommended action and again it was the girlfriend who sorted the matter out.

Needless to say, that put me off, and though I took some extra nibbles from the army of crap on the table, I could not get out of my mind the question: ‘how close is a cockroach to me now?’ All of which shunted me into Mina, who resignedly requested that my body be removed from her seat after 20 minutes of imposition. Stefan seemed not to care, and slumped back to duty: jesting and ignoring the empty glasses of others.

Back to the experience. Well for a start I was happy Mina should meet Charlene in case our meanderings take us to Paris (which would do wonders for the food aspect, however minimal, of this blog) and I was pleased to meet her boyfriend Alessandre, but chances are should you visit, you won’t see them. Instead you might wonder how you would see anyone, for as desserts were ordered and appeared, staggered, all bulbs extinguished and a strobe instead illuminated our ice-cream (I scream –geddit?). Painfully, torturously, a scene was enacted in the wormhole connecting our cell (forgot to mention that) to the others in the Scooby-Doo interior design. Interns and teenagers dressed in masks and gloves ran to the sound of sirens, chased fortuitously by girls in cop outfits each badged Officer Naughty. But not even that could cause a stir, and seated in my corner, I tried not to think about the heat, nor the stifling air, the fact I was hemmed in by ten others and that there was, possibly, a cockroach inspecting my left ankle.