I go to Tokyo for a thing, which is actually a reasonably big deal. The trip is stamped with terror.
We are driven in great state to the place wherein the action will take place. My biggest responsibility is to buy Jonathan a sandwich for lunch. I venture out into the wild streets of Ginza to find a sandwich shop. At first it is euphoric, whoa Tokyo, whoa!
Yay! I find a sandwich shop.
Smug in that I have carried out my heavy task, I head back to the place. This is where the terror starts. I cannot remember exactly how I got to where I am. I set off into the high building maze of Ginza. I have no idea where I am going, every huge street looks the same. Am I heading towards the place or diametrically away from it? I am illiterate and can read none of the many maps that are posted. Well actually, I can read “You are here.” but, you know, what is the use of knowing where you are if you don’t know where you are going, er, dude?
I feel true terror. Months of work and preparation, thousands or millions of whatever currency, guests from all over, and I am stumbling, with Jonathan’s sandwich, along identical streets with millions of other lost people.
So, the thing is in a huge auditorium on the 12th floor of an 459 floor or something building.
I listen attentively until I feel the floor shake. I immediately envisage 100,000,000 tons of concrete dropping down on my head as I in turn drop down at the same velocity, waiting for the inevitable squish as we hit the deck. What will it feel like? Will it hurt?
The little quakes go on.
The thing goes on from 1:30 to 6:00. Throughout I am in a state of primal dread.
Tokyo, you are too hard-core for me.
Anyway, I survive and fly back to find that the Spring “Marine Quarterly” has arrived.
Hooray! I can relax reading about shipwreck.