How my umbrella made me late.

Punctuality is extremely important over here, and in all my years of dodging PE or oversleeping, I`ve never had such an improbable excuse as this.

Until recently, Japan has resembled a generous English summer. Now an early rainy season is gradually making its presence known. Last Friday, my semi-regular trudge to the school furthest from home was announced with a clap of thunder, and clouds that in a cartoon would have grumpy expressions, so I armed myself with one of the umbrellas we`ve inherited (this one being a gift from Kitsune sensei, a social studies teacher who`s now gone to another school).

As I picked it up, I noticed that the handle now looked like a foot, complete with toes that wiggled mischievously. The umbrella curved upwards, there was a rustle and a huge eye opened in the fabric, followed by a smile shaped orifice directly below, from which lolled a thick pink tongue.
“BLEARGH!!!” said my umbrella. Naturally, I screamed like a girl and fell over backwards, letting go of the thing. It hopped up and down on my chest, babbling in Japanese that I couldn`t keep up with.

I`ve often thought that the true test of ones language skills is against small children and drunk old men. I now count umbrellas amongst these challenges.

It got off me and bounced around the room, clearly excited, but I didn`t have time to indulge it (cloudy skies usually make me oversleep) and Hayley had already gone to work. I attribute my quick thinking to the phenomenon that makes grannies wrestle crocodiles. In my pre-stove existence, I lived on take-out bento, the net result being the acquisition of a small fortune in elastic bands. Grabbing the umbrella in one hand, I bound it securely with the other and hurriedly stuffed it into the shoe cupboard. I left home in a rush, thanking River Island for selling me a coat with a hood.

I made particularly grovelling apologies to the Vice Principal when I got to work. Hopefully she won`t tell my illustrious employers.
As you can imagine, thinking of grammar activities throughout the day was difficult because my head was full of umbrellas. I was sure I`d seen something like that before. Then I remembered a stall in Kyoto selling representations of what I`d seen.

I also remembered, from the reading I did for the Halloween entry, that the Japanese word for ghost (obake) means “changing thing”. Since a ghost is something that has changed from a living into a dead thing, and considering that the animistic spirit of Shinto sees life in all things, it started to make a bit of sense.

I googled (funny how that`s become a verb) bakegasa (ghost umbrella) and discovered that it`s a “species” of tsukumogami (artifact spirit). When objects reach their one-hundredth birthday, they come to life. It`s said that such creatures are repelled by electricity, so modern objects don`t become tsukumogami. All reasonably clear so far, but it doesn`t explain why Kitsune sensei randomly gave me an antique umbrella.

I was a little nervous on the way back home. When I arrived, I was greeted with an open shoe cupboard and the remnants of my rubber band collection. The bakegasa was sitting on the sofa, next to a Japanese/English dictionary and reading one of my grammar books, turning the pages with its tongue.
In broken Japanese, I apologized for my conduct that morning and bowed lower than I`ve done to any Koucho sensei. The umbrella responded with
“Nidoto surunai!” (roughly, "Don`t ever do that again.")

And yes, of course I`m the only person who can see it. When Hayley got home, it decided to turn back into a normal umbrella, leaving me to explain why it was on the sofa surrounded by textbooks. I don`t think she believes me. Rest assured, updates on this situation will be posted as they occur.