Libertarian musings from just inside the M25.

Next Monday is a public holiday of some description – which I will blog about when I’ve read a bit more about it – so since I will be spending both tomorrow and the day after in perpetual motion, I thought I’d be domestic again today. I finally caved in and decided to risk washing some of my shirts and towel in the washing machine, while doing all the whites and my exceptionally red handkerchief by hand – a time-saving device, rather than evidence of any sudden change of mind where the domestic facilities here are concerned. I also needed to take drastic action with regard to my towel. I happen to have used the same one for slightly longer than half of my stay here, though I’ve now switched to the spares I brought along, and the awful weather during August – hot and wet – basically meant that there was nowhere in my room that I could hang anything to dry. This meant that, until about a fortnight ago, the best my towel could manage was to progress from sopping wet to fairly damp every 24 hours, which over the course of a month had been slowly converting it from a passive piece of cloth to (I imagine) a teeming ecosystem. Washing it by hand had only made things worse – so I took to hanging it in outside my door in the hope that it might actually dry properly. Slight improvement, but a bit of the eau de old P.E. kit remained. So today it got slung into both washing-machine and tumble-dryer along with the shirts – and while everything emerged from the dryer still faintly damp in places, the towel already looks more, well, uninhabited. A couple of days out in the sun and some regular disinfectant spray should probably do the trick – and maybe another wash next weekend to finish the job.

In general, however, the effect on my shirts was no more impressive than the manual washes I’ve done up to now – and the tumble-dryer didn’t really achieve much more than a good wringing and hanging on the curtain-rail has so far either. All it did was save me a bit of time – so I was able to take a more leisurely approach to the ironing than I usually do, once I’d emerged briefly into the local area in order to stock up on drinks and muesli at the supermarket. I’ve started to mix and match goods between the two local ones – an Isetan and a Tokyu Store – since the prices of some key ingredients in my daily culinary routine vary significantly, depending on which one I use. For example, the Isetan rules on cheese and muesli, while the Tokyu Store wins on drinks (thanks mostly to the fact that it has one entire side of its inner surface area dedicated to drinks) and bentos. My most pressing worry was cereal – nowadays exclusively the Japanese-Kellogg’s versions of Bran Flakes and Coco Pops, since conventional Alpen-style muesli isn’t really sold here – so I hit the Isetan, then returned to guzzle lunch and watch bits of Would I Lie to You?, The Rob Brydon Show and the recent Labour leadership debate on Question Time while finishing off my ironing.

Before I switch on the TV – which yesterday treated me to a late-night King’s Singers concert – to see what I can amuse myself with for the rest of the evening, I feel compelled to mention the one facility in my apartment with which I am significantly dissatisfied: the toilet. Not really operation-wise but, shall we say, in the comfortableness-of-use criterion. To put it simply, there isn’t really enough room in the cubicle to accommodate the toilet-bowl and a person at the same time – which is a slight issue, since the former tends to play the part of the immovable object in any such relationship. The main problem is that the architect seems to have built all the toilet-cubicles in the building for people who don’t have any legs – when the door (which mercifully opens outwards) closes, the distance between the front of the ‘throne’ and the inside of the door is perhaps 25-30cm. The only way to successfully become ‘enthroned’ requires some fairly elaborate feats of acrobatics and serious splaying of one’s various limbs, hampered by the fact that the toilet-roll dispenser is unnecessarily huge (it can accommodate three rolls at once) and takes up valuable leg-room on the left side. Getting into the toilet either involves walking in backwards or, once inside and with the door bolted behind you (about 5cm from your nearest buttock), some pretty agile clambering and careful positioning of one’s centre of gravity in order to turn around without plunging headfirst into the toilet or ending up wrapped inextricably around the cistern. The worst part by far has to be getting out, however, since any forward movement whatsoever while standing up puts one into exceptionally sudden and intimate contact with the toilet-door – a lot of strategic propping and leaning is required to emerge safely, which I am glad to say I managed to master fairly swiftly. For those still struggling to get their heads round what exactly I’m whinging about: just imagine trying to go to the toilet in your average economy class seat on an aeroplane – obviously without the expressions of shock on your fellow passengers’ faces…