There was a party at our house last night, and I took myself out of commission by about two in the morn, after being plied with drinks (I may have been involved in the plying as well). As I slumped into bed, ready for a drunken assault on sleep, two horny young things opened the door, obviously nervous because they were talking QUITE LOUDLY to ward off demons and discovery. They flicked on the light in order to find a fresh bed in which to sport and despoil, only to find me, rather drunk and rather unhappy at this invasion. I hope I muttered something witty and angry, but my reaction was probably closer to a cross between a leer and a grimace. They fled. I slept. And as usual, missed the interesting part of the night. Every time I slink off to bed at one of our parties, the real fun starts - lines of coke in our pantry (perhaps just a rumour), police, drunken girls breaking chairs, people getting frisky on the couches, etc. I need more stamina, I think. Anyway, this time we had an infestation of fuck-hunters, a team of disgusting men who I hope had no connection to any housemate. They would rove through the crowd, seeking women, ascertain with military precision their relationship status and, if single, their likelihood of putting out. At a predetermined time, they would meet back at the rendezvous point (a blue sofa) and share their findings, isolating the eligible and concentrating their forces on these weak points. I really hope they all ended their nights with an unsatisfying, drunken wank. Or got together, after finding that their sex drives were best suited to each other. Really, who are these people? Who let them in? Oh, and people were snorting some kind of white shit, substance unknown. Woo. And as always, we housemates got attitude from people were better dressed (they had badges) but were unaware that we were the rent-payers and their hosts and that they were here on our sufferance. Next party: nametags for housemates. Perhaps even a uniform. Authority, that's what we need.

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In an interesting turn of events, my lovers of last year are returning one at a time, bringing back a surge of mixed emotions with them. One to combat loneliness, another from overseas with a new boyfriend left at home, the third coming from overseas in a week. I don't know how to feel. I'm off in a month, which means I leave everything behind except a sweet sadness, a melancholy, a memory, the things I keep close by. There's always a residue of love, the lingering. I didn't know how I'd feel about the new boyfriend, considering how much it hurt when we parted, but love, like an illness, leaves behind an immunity, a vaccination against further invasion and so we could talk freely, in a strange, sweet post-mortem, a tiny bubble of time given to us before she left again for her real life in the mother country. She was careful not to let me hope, careful to emphasize the difference between what was and what is, what will be, and yet for one moment of one day there was a possibility that opened and closed, a window that held neither vain hope or pain.

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I applied for a working holiday visa at the Japanese consulate, and was kinda scared about it. I'd called the visa section a couple of times, seeking information, only to be given the cold shoulder by the brusque man on the other end. When he appeared at the window, I knew it was him - middle aged, resenting his post amongst the wide-eyes, given a little power to flaunt and make lives difficult. He flicked through my documents, told me I'd missed something crucial and made me fill out some forms. I nervously took the completed forms back to him only to hear dissatisfaction erupt from his mouth. "Look, you can't live in any one place for more than three months," he said. "But.. but we want to." He sighed. "Just put Osaka for three months and Kyoto for three months." From there, he went through the entire form telling me what to write and what to leave out, and even smiled. From arsehole to Mr. Helpful in three minutes or less.

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My brother studied Japanese in high school, and I'm trying to pick up the most basic bits of the language from him. I don't think it's going to be easy. In formal conversation, you emit a "Hie!" for yes, with military pronunciation (Sir! Hie, Sir!) and "Ooe" (I think) for no, which sounds like yes in English. My time would be better spent practicing charades for several hours a day.