If I’m planning to go swimming at school I try and catch the 9:13 bus to work. This ensures that I miss about 2 kilometres of warm up and drills and get there just in time for a quick warm up, the main set and the more sedate second half of the distance work. The problem with this is, I’m inevitably running late for the bus (9am is tragically early for the holidays) so more often than not I make the sprint down the hill to the bus stop with a piece of toast in my hand, frantically trying to do up my shirt with the other. I can time my run by checking on the undertaker’s progress up the hill.

The undertaker is a middle-aged Japanese woman who walks up the hill at the same time as I’m running down it. Day after day she is dressed in the same severe black dress, four colour-coded biros in the breast pocket, and a black sun umbrella lowered over her eyes. Her timing is immaculate. If I pass her near the entrance to our complex, I know I have to go hell for leather down the hill or I’ll miss the bus. If we pass half-way, I know I can slow up a little. If she is just passing the post box when I reach her, I know I have a few minutes to spare.

I have no idea what she does at the top of the hill. I can’t imagine it’s much fun though as I’ve never seen her smile, nod, frown or show any emotion whatsoever. When I’m safely on the bus, shirt done up and toast eaten, I sometimes wonder if she’s the owner of some sleazy hostess bar in Kobe, coming home after a night of business, the outfit a clever ploy to throw casual observers off the scent. Then I think of the four biros, aways in the same order, and realise that it can’t be true. Can it?

Posted in Japan on Monday August 8, 2005.

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