Autopilotting

I type this from a self contained booth at the internet café I frequented two years ago during my time in Osaka. Before returning to the UK, I have one day to revisit all old the places that I used to go to, that until now stood at the back of my mind like phantoms. So far I've wandered round Osaka castle park; which is a place I used to cycle around late at night. Often at top speed out of fear from the gunshots (later discovered to be kids with fireworks)… then I walked to my old house and stared at a lady and her son leaving for school. Then I walked past the hospital I worked at. Gosh, life was so lonely back then. That’s why I went mental on the weekends. Later I plan on going into town. There’s a café that I used to go to, where I’d always devour a gigantic hot cake and a mug of black coffee, which in between bean sprouts and 0kcal jelly pouches, would sometimes be the only thing consumed for days…being alone does things to my head. Whatever, I survived.

Yesterday was interesting too…here’s what happened (I was writing and walking, I mean, I’m a human geographer. It’s in my nature to be continuously observing and recording)

A trip to the bank.
I am still walking a bit funny, but this time it’s for a more physical reason: in my bag is 20 quid worth of 10yen coins. That’s 5000 brown coppers, all about the size of 2p. Also, there’s a pouch of 1 yen coins but these are so light they may as well be plastic. I’m surprised they haven’t yet floated away.
I wander with my booty (the money, not my arse, which is always with me regrettably), looking for a place to change it into real money. The first three places all turn me down: luckily the Clerk-sans use such polite language that I walk away smiling, half because their tone makes me feel warm inside and half because I want to burst into hysterics: I feel like a dodgy salesperson trying to flog my wares. Finally, I reach it. Ghetto bank. I walk in and it looks like any other bank- strange cube shaped sofas, ticket machines, staff in toy uniforms fussing over grumpy customers. However this bank has something else, something far more worrying. On the far side is a big yellow Mc Donalds sign. I’m not even joking. The bank isn’t even discreet about it; there aren’t doors to divide the two establishments. They’re conjoined twins. Mc. Bank. Unsurprisingly, staff here were more than happy to change my coins up.