Today I accompanied Rie to another Yoga session, although unlike last week, this class was not specifically designed for ‘beginners’. It was with a certain degree of trepidation that I had agreed to attend such a session, but Rie had insisted that there was nothing to worry about. I tried telling her that it was easy for her to say that, as she didn’t have hamstrings made from granite, but it was no use. As it was, the lesson turned out to be a kind of ‘technique improvement’ workshop but, as I had no technique to begin with, the teacher spent practically the whole lesson taking us through the most basic movements, step by step. If nothing else, these lessons were excellent practice for me Japanese, and I now reckon that I could recognize ‘why is he so stiff?’ and ‘this pose is normally one that only the women find difficult’, in any situation.
Living in Tokyo there would appear to be only one thing that is as ubiquitous as umbrella wielding cyclists: buskers. Turn any corner and you can be guaranteed to have your day dreams shattered by a strangled cover of a Beatles or Bob Dylan classic, often ‘performed’ by one man, his guitar, and the compulsory teenage fan club. Quite why anyone would choose to subject themselves to these offerings is a mystery, although I suspect that my subjectivity is symptomatic of my unrelenting dash towards middle age. This afternoon, when I saw the police stepping in to bring a premature end to one such recital, I had a job on not applauding the exemplary performance of the officer. Still, I am sure that she appreciated my silent gesture of approval, and I can only hope that with such diligent workers it can’t be long before ‘the man’ finally wins a thoroughly deserved victory.