Guilt vs Shame (Part 2)

 If Part 1 was about how the lines became blurred, then this is about what happens when those lines begin to separate.

For a long time, I believed that taking responsibility meant absorbing everything—my actions, your reactions, and the emotional aftermath of both. It felt like maturity. It felt like accountability. In reality, it was something else.

Guilt and shame are often spoken about as if they are interchangeable. They are not.

Guilt is specific. It says: I did something that didn’t align with my values.  

Shame is expansive. It says: There is something wrong with me.

One invites reflection. The other invites collapse.

When those two are confused, responsibility becomes distorted. Instead of recognising a behaviour and adjusting it, the entire self becomes the problem. And when the self becomes the problem, the instinct is either to hide, to overcompensate, or to distribute responsibility in ways that avoid sitting fully with it.

I can see now how often I moved between those states—oscillating between over-owning and deflecting, between carrying too much and not holding enough of what was mine.

Neither is clarity.

Clarity is quieter.

It looks like this:

Recognising where I crossed my own boundaries.  

Acknowledging the impact of my choices without rewriting the entire story of who I am.  

Allowing others to carry what is theirs, even when it feels uncomfortable to let go.  

Responsibility, when it is clean, does not require punishment.

It requires honesty.

And honesty, I’ve learned, is not about being harsh with oneself. It is about being precise.

There are things I would approach differently now. Not because I am trying to distance myself from the past, but because I understand it more clearly.

Guilt can guide.  

Shame only obscures.

Learning the difference has been less about becoming a better version of myself, and more about becoming a more accurate one.

And accuracy, it turns out, is where change actually begins.

Guilt v Shame – How blurred boundaries shaped my choices (Part 1)

 A personal story of blurred boundaries, responsibility, and the difference between taking accountability and carrying shame.

I have always had a hard time differentiating between what is mine to carry and what belongs to others. This likely stems from childhood. My mother’s nervous disposition often felt like something I needed to manage. Where I finished and she began was never clearly defined, and no adult in my world stepped in to draw that line for me.

I was also expected to look after my younger brother from a very early age. “Make sure you take care of him,” was something I heard often. Over time, that sense of responsibility became deeply ingrained, to the point where not fulfilling it felt like it might lead to rejection or abandonment.

As a result, I became adept at protecting myself emotionally. I learned to keep people at a distance, and yet, over time, loneliness would inevitably creep in. When I did let people in, I often found myself taking on more than was mine to hold—absorbing emotions, trying to fix things, and confusing someone else’s guilt with my own sense of shame.

But I digress.

As an adult, I found myself in a relationship dynamic that, in hindsight, echoed familiar patterns. There were differences in emotional needs and expectations, and at times, a sense of imbalance in how responsibility was shared. I often responded in the only way I knew how—by overcompensating, trying to stabilise things, and taking on more than was mine to carry.

Over time, this pattern became difficult to sustain.

Later, when I began to confront my own unmet needs, I struggled to do so with clarity or honesty. Instead of fully owning my feelings, I approached the situation in a way that blurred responsibility. At the time, I told myself I was trying to find a solution, but looking back, I can see that I was not taking full accountability for my part.

There were emotional and relational complexities that I did not handle well. I was seeking connection and intimacy, but I was also avoiding the discomfort of facing things directly. In doing so, I created confusion not only for myself, but within the relationship as well.

What I understand now is this: responsibility and shame are not the same.

Taking responsibility means recognising your part with clarity and ownership.

Shame, on the other hand, is heavier. It absorbs everything—yours and everyone else’s—and turns it into something personal, something to carry alone.

For a long time, I confused the two.

And in that confusion, I made choices that I would approach very differently today.

(Part 2 to continue)

Legal Disentanglment

Many years ago, I wrote that a modern marriage can sometimes resemble a practical arrangement—one shaped as much by structure and convenience as by love or desire. At the time, I didn’t fully understand the weight of what I was saying. It’s only now, going through the process of untangling a legal marriage, that I understand how binding that structure truly is.

I entered marriage at a time when I believed I had done enough work on myself to be ready to show up as a present partner. I was emerging from a period of recovery and rebuilding, and there was a strong desire to belong—to create something stable and whole. Looking back, I can see that while I had made progress, there were still patterns I didn’t yet recognise.

The relationship began with a sense of ease and attentiveness that felt reassuring at the time. There were also moments that, in hindsight, pointed to deeper differences in temperament and how we related to the world. At the time, I chose to focus on the parts that felt good, believing that they represented the foundation we could build on.

Maya Angelou once said, “When someone shows you who they are, believe them the first time.” It’s a quote that has taken on new meaning for me. I’ve come to understand that behaviour communicates far more clearly than intention, and that what we choose to overlook early on often returns later, amplified.

The pace of the relationship was quick, and decisions were made without much pause for reflection. At the time, it felt like momentum. Now, I see it more as a lack of space to fully understand what we were stepping into.

Over the years, the relationship moved through different phases. There were periods of conflict, followed by periods of adjustment and compromise. I learned to prioritise harmony, sometimes at the expense of my own clarity. Life continued—work, responsibilities, family—and gradually, the relationship became more functional than connected.

At some point, we began living parallel lives within the same structure. Shared logistics remained, but much of the emotional connection had faded. In Japan, there is a term sometimes used to describe this state—Kateinai Rikon - where a couple remains legally married, but functionally separate. That description resonated with me.

I digress.

Living in Japan, I’ve also come to understand the structure of divorce here more clearly. Broadly speaking, there are three main pathways:

1) Divorce by mutual agreement, where both parties come to terms independently and file jointly.  

2) Divorce through mediation, where a third party helps facilitate agreement.  

3) Divorce through the courts, where decisions are made when agreement cannot be reached.

Each path reflects not just a legal process, but the degree of alignment—or lack of it—between two people trying to separate.

What I’ve come to realise is that the ease of entering a legal bond is not matched by the ease of leaving it. The process of disentanglement requires not just paperwork, but alignment, cooperation, and time.

When that alignment isn’t present, the process becomes slower and more complex. It requires patience, resilience, and a willingness to move forward even when resolution is not immediate.

If marriage is the act of weaving two lives together, then divorce is the careful—and sometimes prolonged—process of separating those threads.

And like anything tightly woven, it doesn’t come apart all at once.

It loosens gradually, over time.

And eventually, it does release.

It’s Complicated

 It's complicated on many fronts. Many.

First, I am still married to my S2BX (Soon to be ex) and although he says he's done, his actions are nothing but holding on to this dead horse of a marriage for dear life. I'm now having to breakdown the disintegration of this marriage into two pieces: child custody and assets. (more on that later)

Second, I have a teenager who has been an only child all his life. To have a step brother or sister that would take attention of his mother, during a contentious divorce, is not going to be conducive to his emotional health as he navigates the challenges of puberty. 

Third, I am a mother of advanced age. A geriatric pregnancy, so to speak. My first pregnancy was also a geriatric pregnancy, which didn't end well, as my son ended up spending 4 months in the NICU for being born too early. I was told by my obstetrician to make sure I check myself into hospital the next time I get pregnant - if I am planning to - in order to prevent me going into pre-term labour. 

And last, but not least, Nick and I do not live on the same continent, let alone same country, same house. We would need to travel to each other's countries to spend any time together as a family, which needs to also include my teenage son (second complication). If I'm on hospital bed rest, he will need to visit me during my pregnancy, and fly in for the scheduled birth (if I don't go into preterm labour, like before).  I'm not sure how many times he could come over if there are multiple false alarms before the baby is born.

Statistically, being pregnant and delivering a healthy baby in one's fifties is about as rare as a mid-air plane collision. It happens, but not as much. Certainly not as much as how Mayday Air Disasters would have us believe. There's been some celebrities giving birth in their 50s, but it's so rare that it is more than newsworthy. 

But the desire to procreate is a deep, human desire, our raison d'être, that is baked into each of our cells through our DNA. We want to make babies. Lots of babies. And evolution has given us the most pleasurable, and addictive way to do so. That dopamine high during orgasm gets compared to addictive drugs like heroin and meth. Hell, there's even a 12 step recovery program for those that are addicted to the act of procreation. 

For now, Nick and I will continue in our irresponsible manner and pretend we are procreating, knowing that our chances are extremely low under our health and age circumstances. But it doesn't stop me from making many many AI babies using our pictures and dream of a little brood that will never be. 

Another AI Baby

Baby Fever

I’ve been daydreaming lately using AI tools to simulate what Nick and my babies would look like. 

They are all beautiful. I want his babies… but it’s complicated. 

one of our AI children

Slow Life - Post Covid

 

I was living 80mins drive from central Tokyo in a small town (village?) that has a population of just under 7000. 

This was supposed to be our holiday home, but today this is where I call my sanctuary. I divide my time between my flat in Tokyo and my sanctuary; I also own a house that I do not live in and I apparently have no right to live in while it is my soon to be ex-husband’s residence for now. Until the divorce is final. 

Rather than worry about assets, I have filed for an emergency ruling on legal guardianship of our 13 year old son before litigating for the divorce itself. This is to protect my son from the toxic behaviours of his father. The family courts open usually from Jan 4, but this year it will be from the 6th. 

Until then I’m enjoying the slow-life. Life before my soon to be ex husband goes ballistic over the filing and accuses me of going to war. Life before I receive a barrage of passive aggressive texts and emails at all hours of the day; so excessive to the point I have to block him again. Life before he does something crazy and irreparable in terms of divorce outcomes. 

He’s one of those people who has to be right, to win every argument at any cost. Wants to die on every hill… I feel for his divorce lawyer, but alas, she took him on as a client. 

Today I chose to live quietly and peacefully in my sanctuary. My slow life in my beautiful sanctuary. 

My love, N, is also my spiritual and emotional sanctuary. 

Travel Tips for Long Distance Commuting

This is something I wrote back in September 2024. I have since traveled once more to the US, and plan many more in 2025. Happy New Year. 

I “commute” between East Asia and the East Coast of the United States. 

In true former alcoholic/addict fashion I take on big challenges just because it’s another way to feel alive while deep down believing that fate chose this road less traveled for me. Simply put, I’m addicted to my own drama. 

This is my fourth trip to the east coast of USA from east Asia this year. My final destination is a 14 to 16 hour journey. I even arrive before I left thanks to the international dateline being crossed. 

Before my complicated relationship with my ex boyfriend, who is my current “Affair Partner”, I travelled overseas at about the same frequency. The only difference was that the flights were shorter and almost exclusively to warm, south east pacific islands and beach locations. Never to a colder climate, inland and far from the sea. Love makes us push us out of our comfort zones; love gives me the courage to go places I would never imagine. 

With all the long haul travel that I’ve been doing, I’ve picked up a few travel tips that I would like to share with myself from the past when I first visited my boyfriend for the first time in 19 years:

1. Seats at the back or the middle row often do not get filled until the flight is full. Choose them to increase the probability of getting an entire row for the flight. 
2. Portable foot rest that hooks onto the tray in front of you is a better investment than a neck pillow. 
3. Benadryl, CBD, and melatonin combo. Say no more. 
4. Download the podcasts and Netflix series before you get on board. 
5. Bring disposable slippers on board.
6. Don’t have a heavy carryon when you have to transit in a US city to get to your destination. You’ll be stuck in immigration for at least an hour. 
7. Make sure you have at least 3 hours transit time. Otherwise be prepared to miss your flight and have to ask the airline to find a seat on the next flight out. 
8. Bring a large scarf for your domestic flight in the US. They don’t give you blankets. 
9. Try booking a flight where you transit in Canada so you don’t have to go through immigration until your destination. 
10. Be happy and grateful that you have the resources today to see your beau as frequently as you do because you have lots of air miles. You didn’t have this 20 years ago.

Commuting long distance is tough, but I’ve weighed up the pros and cons. I’m not sure what I did in my past life, but it seems I still owe the universe enough that I’m paying the price to be with the love of my life to this day. I’ll keep paying up and not rack up more debt to the universe. If I’m not careful, I’ll owe a lot in interest…

Reason, Season, or Lifetime

 Back in March 2005 I travelled to the other side of the planet from Tokyo on a 15hr journey to meet a man who met through this blog. He also owned a blog, and we would leave each other comments. That’s how it started. We somehow fell in love, but being in a long distance relationship during the MSN Messenger era was a bit too hard for me. We broke up, went our separate ways, and each of us got married and lived happily ever after. 

We stayed in touch, however, and sent each other Christmas greetings from time to time. Wondering how life was treating each other. We follow each other on social media, and hit “like” on milestone photos of children and pets.

We grow old in our respective countries, on the other side of the world, and when one of us passes, the other one gets wind of the conclusion through Facebook…  

In a parallel universe.

In this universe, however, the ending is slightly different, and it is still being written as you read this. 

When I think about my story, I remember a poem I read when I was still at school: Reason, Season, or Lifetime. Because I’m still trying to work out why this man is still in my life.

*********

My soon-to-be-ex husband thought I would never find anyone that would want to be with me when he agreed to opening up the marriage. He thought I would live in the countryside by myself forever, while he lives it up in the city house that I paid for. With my son. And while he rested on his laurels, thinking he need not make any effort to fix the disaster that became my 15year marriage, I reconnected with the man I flew 15hrs to visit 19 years ago. 

It turned out that as I entered an open marriage his divorce was finalised. Two lovers, separated in time and space, somehow were in a position where the universe gave us another chance. This time in the era of smartphones and wifi connection. This time with maturity and hindsight to guide us towards a healthier relationship. 

I flew again to the other side of the planet to see him after corresponding almost daily and developing an emotional bond for over 6 months. Distance forces us to take things slowly, and as a result, we make the most out of the time we spend together. We’re fond of each other, we respect each other, we listen to each other, and we’re there for each other. 

Is he here for a Lifetime? I don’t know. I hope so, but I’m still trying to find out. 

My soon to be ex husband? I wish for it to be a Reason. And his season to end soon  

Departmental Curse

The department I work for, I thought, had an unusually high divorce rate when I joined 7 years ago. Maybe it was because in my previous workplace, most of the people were long term singletons. Or these days, I think they are called “incels”. 

Unlike my consulting days, the team I work with has a good work-life balance. It’s just that there is some travel involved; but again, not to the level of my consulting days. I would say less than 20% travel.

At least 10% of the team (that I know) came back from their brief business trip to a “Dear John” letter from their spouse and an empty house. In some cases so empty there were no furnishings left in the house. 

How does one clear out a three bedroom house, with two kids and two cats, during a 5 day business trip? That’s an achievement worth mentioning on one’s LinkedIn profile.

As I go through my legal separation (aka divorce) from my son’s father, I am slowly coming to accept that I truly belong to this team of wonderful colleagues who are all divorced. It’s almost as if our department is cursed and being a divorcee is how we are initiated into this team of internal auditors.

Yes. I am an internal auditor. 

The Unraveling… (part 2)

One man’s trash is another man’s treasure. And one man’s hag is another man’s whore. 

“I’m kicking you out. You need to take all your stuff out of this house by the end of this month and move permanently to the holiday home with your dog. I don’t want you here if you’re going to be with another man.” was what I received on iMessage. Fifteen years’ of marriage and he still doesn’t have the decency or the courage to look me in the eye and say these things. 

What followed next was a list of “conditions for separation”. 30+ things he was dictating, including “alimony” for something he casually agreed to: an open marriage. None of the things he listed out included anything to do with custody arrangements for our son. Just assets, financials, and administration. 

What was I smoking fifteen years ago when I said, “I do.”?

Now I’m completely sober. Healthy. And I knew that I needed to finish what I started, which is to legally separate myself from my earlier mistake. No amount of couples therapy or reconciliation date nights was going to fix this marriage when one of us saw no problems with it. Perfectly happy was his marriage before I wrecked it with a third party. 

That’s not my reality; not my experience.

I drafted and rewrote the conditions for separation into offer of divorce conditions. For some reason he thought that a counter offer of couples counseling would bring me back. 

No. I’ve asked you twice too many times in 15 years. You never came to therapy; you never wanted to work it out with me. Too late. I don’t bluff like you… I moved on years ago since my last request to work on our relationship. I haven’t spent a weekend doing activities with you since. I don’t eat with you. I don’t holiday with you. I spend half my week in a different house from you. I just share some of our living space and pay the mortgage. 

I have my own life, and so do you.

And now, it’s time for me to interview divorce lawyers. Something I should have done years ago.

The Unraveling … (part 1)

 Open marriage. This is what initiated the end of a fifteen year contract with the father of my son. I remember that night clearly, as we were both in bed at the same time. It was unusual to be in bed at the same time, for the past decade or so we went to bed at different times. I went to bed by 9 o’clock. He came around midnight. 

I approached my soon to be ex-husband (S2BX) while he sat propped up on three pillows (one of which belonged to my side of the bed that he had a habit of stealing) playing “Smashing Four” on his iPad mini. 

One of four iPads in a home of three people. 

I asked if he thought our marriage would benefit from opening it up to other romantic partners especially because I had not been able to satisfy him sexually. We had a classic “sexless marriage” following the long, difficult conception process and early birth of our only son. It took over a year of trying to have a lot of sex during my ovulation week, and not much in between due to my lack of enthusiasm to continue the wifely duties. Sex, when it becomes a chore just like vacuuming or folding laundry, is something you put off until the last minute or outsource. At least for this wench who hates folding laundry these two are the best options. 

“Sure. If it pleases you. But I’m fine not getting a girlfriend, because I’m busy with work and raising L (our 12 year old son)”. He said, not looking up from his screen. 

I wasn’t surprised with his response, because for the best part of 7 years since our son started elementary school he has been indifferent about my various requests for independence. Holidays with my female friends, solo diving trips, spending half my week at our holiday home… the list goes on. 

“Are you sure you’re fine about opening up our marriage?” I asked repeatedly, because knowing how my S2BX is - possessive - I knew that operating under an open marriage may not be as easy as his “sure, whatever”s. 

He looked up briefly from his Smashing Four and said, “Sure, why not. If you think you can find someone who will be interested in you”, whilst smirking, as if to say:”if you can find somebody who is willing to be intimate with your fat, ugly body.”

He’s so offensive. Even more so after I put on 30lb during COVID. Even without the weight gain he often told me that no one else would want to be with a recovering alcoholic like me. 

Emotional abuse 101.

I once took it, but these days I’m over it. I’ve gone through enough therapy to let it bring my spirits down.

“Yes, I want an open marriage. I hope you’re fine with me getting a boyfriend.”

Perfect. I can decouple from a loveless marriage and have my sexual needs met by someone who will respect me and love me the way I deserve to be loved. 

Doing Grownup Stuff

 

Over the past decade or so, I’ve had to do some growing up. Aging is inevitable, but I never knew that growing up, or maturing, is something that I have to work at, and not something that happens naturally as we age. 

Since I started on the path of recovery from my alcoholism and addiction, I’ve gone back to a suit job, got married, bought property and built a house, had a kid - a micro premie who is on the spectrum, changed jobs, bought another piece of property and built another house, said good bye to my cats, and said hello to a dog, with a relapse and periodic return to prescription drug abuse in between. 

I’ll have ten years without alcohol this month though. It hasn’t been plain sailing the last 19 years, but nonetheless an achievement since this is the longest I’ve gone without booze. 

While the list of things I’ve done since 2005 sounds like I’ve got my life back in order, the destructive, drunk within has continued to sabotaged my inner life periodically. I’m not used to serenity and peace. Chaos and drama are where I feel alive. Always.

I struggled through a 15 year marriage to a man who is as sick as I was at three years’ sober. He chose not to seek professional help, or to get with a program to work on his issues. I, on the other hand, took on his issues, made it my own, and sat around pissed off that I had too much to fix on my plate. 

Time to let go of his problems, and him.

Divorce is never easy. None of my immediate family members have experienced divorce. All of them are widows or widowers, some of whom are living their best moments now that their tormentors have left for the other world. At 50, I’m too young to be dead on the inside, but too old to sit around waiting for something or someone to change my drab reality. It’s time I put my big-girl pants on and took ownership of my own destiny. Time for another round of growing up. 

* I need to thank my ex, but now current boyfriend, N, for encouraging me to write again. I doubt anyone else would read my posts so I’m writing this mostly with his readership in mind. *

AAARRRRGGGG!!

My links are gaarn! This sucks! I need to sit and surf the web for ages... :(

Ingrish Teachaar

I love my English Language students – they crack me up sometimes. Don’t get me wrong, I really like all my students, but they have me shaking my head after each lesson simply because they have the wackiest ideas about the English language.

It’s my job to help people to speak English; and one of the ways in which I can help them is on their pronunciation. When you are a native English speaker like me, you have no difficulties differentiating words like: Berry, Belly, and Very. All my Japanese students hear the same word when I say these three.

Belry, Belry, Belry.

No wonder they can’t understand English…

For some of them I have spent a good part of the lesson asking them to close their eyes so that they can’t see my lips when I say Berry, Belly, and Very, but to no avail…. I am starting to wonder if they have different ears to me, because I am clearly saying BERRY, BELLY, and VERY.


(They are so lovely; they try hard, but they still crack me up!)

An old friend of mine, a Japanese gentleman who graduated from the same college as me, is a linguist. He published a book that addresses the same issue that I see in my classes every day. As someone who learnt English when entering Graduate school in the UK, he emphasises the importance for those of us who have very little sound differentiation in our native languages (e.g. Japanese) to learn to listen carefully, before attempting to make the correct sound. (Sound advice! No pun intended…) The Japanese language does not have many consonants, including B, V, F, R, L, S, M, N, and TH, and Koreans (based on my observation) do not seem to get the J and Z sounds, for everything sounds like “jhu”.

I must admit I don’t go pissing myself with laughter when my students find it difficult to pronounce a word, but they do keep me amused with the various sounds they try very hard to make so that they can make themselves understood by us. The pinnacle of my day’s musings was “sympathetic”, which was quaintly pronounced “shimpaceti’ku’u”.

We all have a long way to go....

Leaving Stuff on Memory Lane

There is a sushi shop in Ootsuka, North Tokyo, where I did a few laps of heavy drinking in the pre-AA days. Its one of those places where most of the customers order alcoholic beverages before midday: beer, sake, Shochu, or Soju. No one orders food there, only Jinro, gali (pickled giner), and “just one more for the road”. Even the sushi chef, Taisho*, has had a few by 1pm.

Ootsuka, a rough, working class neighbourhood, is close to my old, old, old, flat I lived in nearly 6 years ago. I had not visited this area for ages until recently. I was there doing some spot “language consulting” work which involves me introducing potential English language students to teachers who can teach in their neighbourhood. The agency sets the time and place, and I am just there to explain the payment system. Nothing to it, but it takes one hour, on mostly weeknights after 8pm, or 9pm.

On Thursday last week I found myself standing outside the Ootsuka Sushi “Bar” at 9:45pm. Its peak drinking time for most of the punters. I know, for I was a long standing regular there at the turn of the last century. A year or two ago, had I found myself standing in the same place my mind would have jumped straight to the thought of a nice Go of Hakkaisan sake, but that day my intensions were clear: have some dinner, and head off home to my nice, middle class suburb.

As soon as I walk in the Taisho asks me what I'd like to eat. I order tea and begin to shout out my order one by one Toro (fatty tuna), Uni, Engawa, Hamachi, etc. I ordered nine items all together just to test if he could remember it all.

“Hai-yo” (sure), he exclaimed, his hands moving up and down the display case picking out the various fish in my order. Some of the other punters, already on their third or fourth drink, started to laugh. “Taisho, how many orders can you remember all at once?”

“I can remember about 11, or 12.”

“Taisho, how about how many drinks you've had today?”

Taisho, never missing a beat with his hands moving smoothly through his rhythm of putting together my raw fish dinner, said, “I remember only important things, and how many I've had is irrelevant. Oops, it's nearly 10pm; I better catch up to you guys! Hey, I'll have some cold sake”.

A minute later he has a glass of clear, slightly thick liquid, and is almost finished with my small order of nine.

Amazing. It truly amazes me how some people are functional alcoholics. I know one when I see one, for I used to be one of them. The dude remembers 11 items at once – must be rote memory – but can't remember how many he's had that day. No wonder I used to enjoy losing track of time, sipping my next one for the road, and eating nothing but pickled ginger and a few slices of sashimi in a grubby little neighbourhood. It's so easy to leave the outside world and to sit down on a stool opposite the tipsy Taisho ordering food after drink after food.

You leave your wet your wet umbrella and the day's trouble outside the sushi bar in Ootsuka; and you never have to worry about remembering what you ordered, so long as it's only 12 items or less. (Hell, no one there would order that much food. Drinks, perhaps, but never food!)

After finishing the last piece of salmon sushi in my mouth I stood up asking for the bill, paid, and bid the happy punters and the Taisho goodbye leaving them with their next one for the road. It was a nice little trip down memory lane, but on reflection it's easier to see that some things are best left where they are: in the past.

I slid the wooden door behind me, smiled to myself and left Ootsuka, booze, and Taisho too – my memory lane – to take a train back to my new house in the middle of a squeaky clean, family oriented, quiet neighbourhood in Southwest Tokyo.

*Taisho has the same meaning as “Governor” or “Gov” as loosely used by people from the southern parts of Britain.