Libertarian musings from just inside the M25.

My brain feels like mush after an intense all-day event, so I’m going to keep this one short again. In the form of 5 More Things that are Different in Japan:

1. Blowing one’s nose in public is considered the height of rudeness. Blowing one’s nose into a handkerchief and then studying the contents intently as if trying to divine the future from their appearance is so far beyond the pale that it’s transcended reality to move into a whole new dimension of disgustingness. The acceptable alternative is apparently – and I’m seriously not making this up – to snort back the phlegm vigorously with a sharp intake of breath through the nose, which is precisely the sort of sickening activity that blowing one’s nose was invented to prevent… I haven’t checked it, but my suspicion is that snorting rather than blowing is analogous to not being unnecessarily extrovert in public: when one snorts, one is containing the nasty fluids and germs inside one’s own body, instead of spraying everything everywhere by blowing it out. Alternatively, it could be because the tissues here are so flimsy – one solid blow, and they’d promptly disintegrate…
2. The numbering of blocks of houses in all Tokyo cities and areas is based on the radial distance of the block from the Imperial Palace up in Chiyoda. So, for instance, the German embassy is at 4-5-10 Minami-Azabu, which means that it’s in the Minami-Azabu area/town (which is in Minato ward), 4^th district, chome, 5^th block, ban, 10^th building, go, all calculated relative to the central marker of the palace. As good as any marker, I suppose, but I still don’t like the face that, in the 21^st century, the influence of an antiquated system of government can still affect something as aesthetically trivial but administratively crucial as an addressing system. NB: unlike the UK system, where one works one’s way up from the house number to the county, it’s prefecture downwards here in Japan.
3. Japanese entertainment TV is infinitely more colourful and high-octane than anything I’ve ever seen in Europe. Almost every programme appears to incorporate a reaction-camera insert, bits of dialogue keep popping onto the screen as absurdly colourful subtitles in dozens of different quivering fonts, the presenters all seem to be shouting and guffawing permanently, the contestants squeal and gasp with more melodrama than a village panto, the sets look like they’ve been designed by Noel Edmonds’ shirt-maker, the laughter/applause track is on full blast practically all of the time, and there is a constant undercurrent of sound effects like bouncing springs, whistles and squelches to illustrate pretty much anything on screen. It may be that I’ve tuned into a disproportionate number of late-night talk-/game-shows, but I’m developing the distinct impression that Japanese TV can and does make Shooting Stars look like University Challenge and Never Mind the Buzzcocks sound like Question Time.
4. The Japanese have a surprising penchant for playing tinny muzak in unexpected bits of the public transport system. This extends to the use of painfully repetitive tunes at pedestrian traffic lights to accompany the whole time that they turn green, and in the metro for the same purpose while the carriage doors are open and commuters are getting on/off. Helpful I guess, but slightly disconcerting for the first few times (due to the shock value) and fairly tedious not long after that.
5. Japanese women use parasols in sunny weather. I don’t really mean the frilly floral monstrosities the Edwardians had – the ones here can be anything from quirky asymmetric minimalist IKEA-ish creations to standard fragile pagoda-shaped variants that look less stable than the average cocktail umbrella. It seems it’s part of the deeply Oriental drive to preserve as pale a skin hue as possible, which is why the same women also wear elbow-length gloves and stockings, just in case the odd ray of light manages to break past their parasol. Utterly alien to the tanning-obsession of Western culture, but equally irrational.