THE LAST WORD
Big in Japan By Kate Greenhalgh
A
s we say goodbye to 2020 and turn to sob on the shoulder of 2021, many of us will reflect upon the strains which this past year has placed on our marriage. Now is the time to reset. New year, new us. Starting with, I suggest, reform of my partner’s gadget addiction, which I will happily support him through. During lockdown, our front hall was like a Rachel Whiteread installation - mountains of polystyrene packaging to clamber over from the latest online delivery. Even the Turbine Hall at the Tate would have struggled to contain it. But before you even get inside, our house is surrounded by thickets of patio heaters, CCTV cameras, heron-repelling motion-sensor water jets, irrigation systems, wifi-enabled smartphonecontrolled entryphones, timed garden lights, dancing gnomes and, yes, a doorbell which plays a medley of irritating
ringtones. Inside, our bedroom blinds automatically open via a ‘remote hub’ in case we oversleep. We can’t even have Alexa, because there is room for only one control freak in this house. Confinement, as you may imagine, exacerbated the problem. Anyway, it’s still early days in Project Reboot. We were just finishing our latest argument about the ‘need’ for electric scooters, when my eye alighted on a partly hidden brochure. The Japanese lettering made my blood curdle. Surely not... no...no... When we visited Tokyo, back in the days when people travelled to other countries, I lost my partner in the airport - you know that feeling - but I found him again in a popup exhibition devoted to Japanese lavatories. He had that engrossed, glassy-eyed look I have come to dread. If you have not been to
46 read more at darlingmagazine.co.uk winter 20/21
Japan, you might not know that Japanese lavatories, as made by the remarkable Toto Toilets Company, are a thing. No matter how humble the establishment, it will boast some version of the Toto Toilet. At its zenith, you find yourself atop a shining throne, with jets of cologne being expertly directed into your nether recesses, warm zephyrs wafted across your buttocks, whilst sound effects of birdsong, the 1812 Overture, you name it, are blasted out to disguise any of your own inadvertent noises. It is like your bottom going for its very own extravagant spa treatment. For an inhibited English person, it is the most awful experience. ‘We. Are. Not. Getting. A. Toto. Toilet.’ I said. ‘Oh please’ he said, ‘I’ll give up on the scooters. Please Kate. We MUST have a Toto Toilet!’ Reader, this is the hill I am prepared to die on. Stand by for the next exciting episode... n
