Last Sunday in January: the dead of winter. Japanese Government toying with extending the latest Covid Emergency Order. Almost the end of the university year. Still one online lecture, three classes to grade and eleven grad theses to go. At home, almost at the end of our tether: getting on each other’s nerves.
Looks sunny. We strip off all our sheets and put them in the washing-machine; futons, out to the terrace to dry. Sunday, right? So, where to go for a kibun-tenkan (change of surroundings)? I ask my wife.
“The Botanical Gardens.”
“There’ll be nothing out,” I say.
Rounding the first corner… and a freak shower is racing towards us from the north! We rush back home, unlock the front door. Sprint upstairs to the terrace, as icy rain comes blasting through; hurl those futons and sheets back inside… then drape them all over the furniture in our living room.
We set off once more.
Entering the Gardens. Nothing out at all. Just a few bobbly white buds on the mitsumata (paper-making bush).
As a last resort, we head for the glasshouse.
The orchid exhibition —
each one a fashion statement
with its own devotees
There is a small voting-box, at one end of the hall, and a stack of cards and pencils. All are urged to vote for their favourite bloom. I find myself tending towards no. 37.
Taking off my mask
to smell the orchid —
nothing at all!