A Goodby Party in Ichigaya

An old man; with the crinkled hands of my grandfather, and my Great Aunt's hearing aid. He offers a goodbye gift; a harmonica song. His wife mumbles the word to the song in a half whispered shadow beside him.

Spaghetti; In Europe you'd send it back, the best that can be said of it is that it is salty and plain - no sauce, just salt - and eight tiny forks set round the table to help us dive into the small shared plate.

A middle aged woman; white flared trousers just a bit too tight, died black hair, frilly red shirt, bursting slightly beyond it's makers design, and suddenly she stands to sing, and her clothing seems perfectly chosen, dashes of colour to add to her remarkable voice. She is an opera singer, singing unaccompanied in this small italian restaurant, the chests of everyone there tremble, like invisible instruments of accompaniment to her song.

A Toast; fraught with a quivering yet sensible love. The Japanese do ceremony, speeches and the day to day marking of events so much better.