A Day in the Rife

Today was our day off, so Karen and I graced the Saitama John Lennon Museum with our presence. Cobbled together by the most hated of all groupie girlfriends, the three other Beatles are scarcely mentioned. On entering the museum, after the shock of seeing `Watford` daubed on a trainline running from London Euston to Liverpool, a wall of black and white portraits of John and Yoko. I counted four other pictures of the Beatles, two of which were John and George, and the other two dated from around 1964, as though Sergeant Peppers` never happened...

After donning our `guest` badges, we were immediately ushered into a small movie theatre and directed to sit at the back, though the show was screen only for our benefit. This was so we could hang the `earphones` from our ears to hear the English narration. I am wholly convinced the earphones - plastic cases that encased our ears - were designed to humiliate the gaijin and not engender good listening.

The rest of the museum was enjoyable enough - especially given that it is free for Shane teachers - although the ubiquitousness of Yoko`s self-congratulation and her blotting out of John`s past, including almost any mention of Paul McCartney or his previous wife and first son, Julian, brewed a slow-boiling rage. The cacophony of music was fed into the rooms in unsettling stereo - one song would bleed into another as you moved from room-to-room, so any emotion tied to a song was stunted and swamped by another in almost overwhelming immediacy.

In Yoko`s favour, she had managed to showcase her political portfolio, while paying homage to John and so a side I had to respect emerged in the midst of the riling and reviling self-aggrandisement. Her installation of `Yoko`s phone` which she is installation of `Yoko`s phone` which she is alleged to occasionally ring, should a visitor to the alleged to occasionally ring, should a visitor to the museum be there to answer it, was quirkily interesting for a second, too.

Prior to visiting the museum, I had been for a short jog near my flat. I have landed in the midst of a thousand intersections. The houses make jutting archipalegos and there is no greenery, save some faded khaki doors, for miles, so I had to road run, which I never enjoy. I gave up very quickly and accepted my late night peanut butter on toast feast may spend a lifetime on my hips, but I, at least, won`t be stared at for being a big bouncing gaijin again.

The homesickness now seems like a small blur that has passed. Things feel normal and more and more like home here. Having a new landline certainly helps and I have taken immense and unnecessary pleasure at work by asserting my authority through ｍａｋｉｎｇ children spit Ｏｕｔ gum upon entering a lesson. At first they thought I was joking, but I must have looked crazed with the power rush as they quickly ascented and spat it out. One poor fat girl was nervously chewing her lip and tried to get her to spit that out too. In the mass of her face, it did look a lot like she was still chewing something she shouldn`t.