Our Jappy Chappy
A little dude from Japan has come to stay at The Asher’s for a couple of weeks. I call him Watters. He looks at me blankly when I do, even though I have explained that Aussiefying is name is imperative.
He has a little English at his disposal, and we have virtually no Japanese, despite the Evils (they shall no longer be called Geniuses)
learning it attending classes in it for five and three years respectively. My Mum gave us a translation book, which has been both useful and a source of great mirth, as he pisses himself every time we speak Japanese to him. Personally, I’m a little affronted, as I’m pretty sure my pronunciation is excellent.
I have reverted to doing what I find most useful when someone doesn’t understand me: talk loudly, so they can now not-understand me with sore ears. As an added bonus, I also use sign-language. My grandparents were deaf, so in my family that’s what you did if words didn’t suffice: Auslan. So, yeah, I was signing my little fingers to the bone for Watters, until Liam said, “He’s Japanese Mum, not deaf.”
We were also using a translator App on our devices, but have given that the flick since I used it today to ask him, “If there’s anything else he wants to do in Noosa?” and he nearly wee-d in his Abercrombie and Finch designer jeans. I suspect I may have asked him something to do with my substantial mammary glands or Nathan’s gastrointestinal ablutions. He wouldn’t say. But every time he looked at me for the rest of dinner, he giggled.
He has a great laugh, our little Jappy Chappy, so we try to do things to make him giggle.
So far we have made him laugh at: urinals in male toilets, sparklers, meat pies, toasted marshmellows, a heat bag in the bed at night, kangaroo spit and koala poo, gravy, peas, Coco’s violin playing, five minute showers, the spa at a local resort, warm Nutella on ice-cream, Vegemite, weird rocks on the first Groyne, pelicans, driving a boat, Cheezels on fingers, ‘cranky’ tacos, blue-tounged lizards, our kids not eating their dinner, bacon and eggs cooked on the barbie, Woofa the shitcat, our footy team’s score today (we were NOT laughing), Nath’s singing, various Aussie stuff in shops, Liam’s speedos, pretty much everything at Aussie Zoo and my use of chopsticks.
However, the thing that has made him laugh the most is my dancing. Again, I’m shocked. Because I’m pretty sure that my dancing is tres fantastique (I may not have any Japanese, but by gawdy I know me French).
Last night we got out the “deck” which is a pumpin’ little speaker with a DJ function. We logged in our iPods and went to battle. Watters has a penchant for songs that are newer and boppier than a woman of my maturity can safely boogie to, and still keep the contents of her bladder retained, but after an aural arm-wrestle over “Blurred Lines” (Him: Yes, Me: Hell NO) we found common ground with Michael Jackson. Turns out this stylish, crazy, funny little dude from Tokyo knows the words to Thriller- including the Vincent Price bit- almost as well as me (not bad considering it takes fifteen minutes to find out where he went on his last holiday), but, even better, he knows the dance at least as well as The Wacko himself.
So Watters laid out the moves, and The Ashers followed along as best we could.
And his gutsy laughter rang out across our blue, blue seas.
…From The Ashers xx