Pillow talk

File this under "only in Japan." We had a lovely sunny day yesterday and my long-suffering wife was in a hurry to take advantage of the moment by hanging out the futons over the upstairs balcony railing (if you don't air them occasionally they get flatter and flatter until one morning you wake up with the grooves of the tatami straw floor embossed on your posterior) when she realised that in her haste to beat the 3pm deadline (conventional wisdom has it that futons won't fluff in late afternoon) she had inadvertently tossed her pillow overboard. We looked down from the balcony, and sure enough, there it was marooned on the corrugated plastic porch roof below. I leaned over the balcony, arms flailing, but couldn't reach it. In a flash of inspiration, Yoshie told me to stand in the garden with my hands raised to the heavens and, in a move any kendo master would be proud of, she unhooked the 6-foot pole we use to hang our washing from and deftly knocked the pillow into my waiting arms. She's not called shacho for nothing, you know.