I’ve finally moved to the Big Smoke! I’m now living in the throbbing heart of Tokyo and can stumble through the bustling, neon-lit alleyways of the sprawling metropolis whenever I feel like it. I’ll soon have plenty of amazing new bars and exciting drinking escapades to write about. That is, once I can afford to leave the house (the extortionate rental deposit has left me poverty-stricken).
It shouldn’t be long before I can get some cash together (I might get round to buying a new computer, too, and actually start blogging more often).
Staying in isn’t a problem- the apartment is brand new and very plush. It’s full of electronic gizmos which I can’t figure out how to use. There’s even a video intercom so I can see who’s ringing my doorbell downstairs in the lobby (and ignore them if they’re religious fanatics, cuckolded husbands or TV license fee collectors.) Shortly after my arrival, the gas-man came to connect my gas, and appeared on the intercom monitor in my flat. I had yet to use this contraption, and didn’t know which of the buttons to press (they all had obscure Japanese kanji on them). I selected one at random and, instead of opening the door for the gas-man, an alarm bell went off. I must have pressed an emergency button because, 10 minutes later, a beefy security guard arrived, wearing a helmet and a bullet-proof vest. He began berating the terrified gas-man, who he’d caught fiddling with the gas-meter in front of my flat.
After about an hour of me being reprimanded, having lengthy negotiations with the security company over the phone in mangled Japanese, painstakingly filling out forms in kanji, the disgruntled security guy finally left me in peace.
I’m surprised my flat even has a panic button- it’s not exactly a dangerous neighbourhood. They could have at least made the button red! Now I’m scared to touch anything in case I set off an ejector seat or a hidden trap door. It’s like being in the movie, “Cube.”