Rain, more rain, but not a washout. / 4 September 2014
Today we have a weather warning for heavy rain, flooding and thunder. The day is cold at 24 degrees and I haul out warmer clothes.
An attempt to roll outdoors is abandoned when the slick surface and rivers of water make rolling hazardous. The umbrella seeps rain, my raincoat seeps rain, I arrive back in need of comfort food and drink. I get both in a bowl. A strangely nutty brown thick Chinese treat, thicker than drink, thinner than cake, hot and eaten with a spoon.
Outside it rains, inside I ponder the green and colourful backstreets of Tokyo. The variegated liriope are blossoming purple and all sorts of small plants are joining in the colour chorus. Greenery that was looking tired and brown is perking up or flattening to the ground. The excavations for new buildings are a quagmire of brown squelch.
The little tin shacks that are part of the demolition, gape empty of contents, flapping tarpaulins into the rain.
Dotted between new high rises there are these occasional wood and tin constructions. They look dark and abandoned except for the riot of well tended greenery in a variety of decaying plastic containers outside. I have wondered if they were lock-ups or even tiny businesses, but little ancient men and women have been observed entering and exiting. The conclusion is that they own these places, live in them and don't want to move. The developers can wait. There is always something, somewhere, to develop.
The day is not a complete washout. Today is the day I got my camera back. It was handed in to a neighbourhood policeman. There are many small police offices along the streets; our local one has, among others, a charming fellow who gets regular visitors who stroll by for a chat.
Although I reported the camera missing at the main police station, procedure required that I visit the local office to fill out forms and the delay was because I felt I needed a translator.
Once the forms were completed, a phone call ascertained that a camera sounding like mine had indeed been handed in. To collect it I should go to the main local office; again I was happiest with an interpreter - not wanting to fall foul of a technicality.
Today it rains, there is no wind, just
pearls of white water cascading from
the sky, rushing to Sumida's side
where she lays tossing and turning
under a pointillist blanket of
black pock-marks. Rushing and skipping
steps and slopes, water gathers and pools,
rivers it's own way to Sumida's side;
Sumida, who heaves and swells with
the burden of water. Wild water
cascading rain-chains, spouting from pipes,
easing, seeping, trickling, torrenting
waterfalls, ruffling Sumida's
heaving blanket; children rushing
home to their heavy, pregnant mother.