From whisky pours to warm toilet seats: the art of Japanese perfection.

Another day, another Japanese TikTok sarnie. The white, crustless bread is as fluffy as an Angora rabbit (Google it), the egg mayo is creamy like silk, and the spicy, breadcrumbed chicken is oh-so-succulent even Jamie Oliver wouldn’t take it off the school menu. It won’t be the last time I mention this delight, and I may morph into one before I fly home. Either that, or I’ll need two seats on the flight.

I walked out of the barbers yesterday without crying, and I didn’t need to use Google Translate. Skin fade, and he kept the high hairline hiding away in the corner where nobody can see it. One thing I’ve learnt in the very short space of time I’ve been here is that the Japanese do everything well. They take pride in every single thing they do, they don’t cut any corners, and they want the outcome of anything to be the best possible outcome it could ever be. The building sites are somehow clean. They have wonderfully polite men guiding you past so you don’t walk into the cement mixer. The streets are as clean as Singapore, but they have character—it’s not clean in a sterile way; it’s clean in a wonderful way.

I was stood outside a restaurant tonight, and the staff were throwing away the day’s rubbish. The efficiency and order were a marvel to behold. The finished product could have been hung in the Louvre, meticulously stacked cardboard boxes and bins full of seafood and shite, but not a smidge on the floor and not a bother at all. Rather than kick the bags across the street and leave one half hanging out with lobster juice running down the road, it was all very splendid.

We popped into a bar on the way home this evening. The bar was as small as a large toilet. It wasn’t a toilet, but if it was, I’d have had a sit on that lovely, warm, heated seat. It was a minute whiskey bar, with a gentleman serving who was as clean-cut and proper as I’ve ever seen. He could have poured me cyanide, bubbling and eroding away at the very glass it sat in, and I would have drunk it with a smile on my face. Luckily, he didn’t, and he served me some Japanese whiskey, which I thoroughly enjoyed due to the fact it didn’t burn my throat like petrol.

An elderly woman arrived and ordered a drop for herself and one for the barman. She frequented this spot every day, we were told, and raised a glass with us after my wife told them she had cried twice that evening at the realisation of how beautiful this country was, at how lucky we are to be here.

“Kanpai,” we all said as we raised a glass together. Kanpai translates to “cheers”; cheers to a place that seems like nowhere else on this planet.

Somewhere I feel like I could live after 72 hours of being here. But I fall in love with everywhere we go instantly and say that no matter where it is (maybe not Northallerton), I fall in love with every place we visit at the drop of a hat. A very fortunate feeling, to feel so often. Maybe it’s the people we meet or the company I’m with. Maybe it’s the TikTok sarnies. Maybe it’s the politeness of everyone. Maybe it’s the efficiency of day-to-day life.

What I do know is that it’s not the cartoon porn, but it could be the fact I feel tall as fuck when I walk around.

Peace and love always.