The Death Stare in the Supermarket

AM

Least: Within an hour of 3:00am, I slumped into a white taxi for the outrageously expensive cruise from Shinsaibashi to Tezukayma. Despite my incredibly blurry state, I noticed that the driver had a small plasma TV installed on his dashboard. The screen had a deep shade so the driver could watch it at any time he chose. Without surprise, I saw that even in the early hours, it was still possible to watch insipid variety shows. I was too drunk to tell whether or not Terry Ito made an appearance.


Most: Just after rising at 11:10am, I slid open my balcony door to discover the surprise that the day was not searingly hot. A coolish breeze fluttered the washing and gave me the hint the summer might just be on the wane. The forecast still warns of above 30 degree days, yet the painful maximums are beginning to lower. Hopefully the nights will be cooler and more sleep friendly too.

PM

Least: At about 3:20pm, I squeezed into the local supermarket to buy some overpriced groceries. What made this dull experience even less interesting was the swarm of houswives blocking every isle. In the fruit section, Rosie reported seeing be-aproned women scanning  bigger-than-A3 catalogues for any bargains they may have missed. You'd think that the old bag who graced me with her death stare as I sidled up to the packing counter would've been more cheerful, given that she'd had just managed to save 23 yen. Tightarse.

Most: Just before 4:00pm, I was again intrigued by another mention of last year's Tsiolkas book 'The Slap', During my visit to Australia a few people urged me to read it and empasised its light-shining value in terms of naughties suburban Melbourne. Having not read any of the book, I settled on a debate on the First Tuesday Book Club between the usual hipster, author, journo and guests. The interesting thing about the usually uninteresting show, was the faith-like defence put up by the Australians after the Britisher dismissed the book for its soapiness. It's always warming to hear familiar suburbs or types mentioned in print, but perhaps the interest fades as soon as you live outside of the good pages of the Melways. Given the rifts and the raft of recommendations though, I'll need to give it a read. At least Hardy has removed that distracting flower from her hair.