Suzuka and the Hermione embargo

“Hermione, my love,” the letter began, “if you are reading this, perhaps you will finally revisit your thinking about the Japanese and accept that what happened more than 70 years ago does not mean that they are all evil, heartless swine of Hell who deserve no better than to be shunned by the world for ever more. I am not lacking in sympathy for your late grandfather, Herm my darling, but it was an awfully long time ago and you didn’t even get to see him alive yourself. 

You won't gainsay that I have always agreed it was beastly that your poor grandfather died of dysentery as a prisoner of war at the hands of some heartless Japanese soldiers after the fall of Singapore in 1942; that was hard for your family.  You found it most upsetting that your family wrote to the poor sod every week, but the wicked Japanese did not even let a single letter or parcel get through to him. Bastards without a shadow of a doubt, I agree. Atrocious. Nevertheless, I have always asked you to have a bit of perspective in the twenty-first century.

Anyway, Herm, let that rest for now and let me get to the nub of things. How did it come to be that you caught me last week on Thursday morning in flagrante delicto with another woman in what you had assumed to be our bed? I swear to you Herm, that was never how I intended for you to find out about Kazumi. I meant to tell you everything later in the week. I was going to fess-up, Herm. Honestly, I was. And anyway how was I to know that you were going to come to the flat at 11 in the morning when you had never done so before, and on the very week when I was going to tell you about my girlfriend? Explain that.

Look Hermione, stop speed-reading this. Pour yourself a glass of wine - I left at least a couple of bottles of Chateau Lafite in the not-to-be-touched-on-pain-of-instant-death rack under my desk, so spoil yourself. Sit down comfortably, relax and read on slowly.

The whole thing with Kazumi began in the most surreal of ways. If you recall, you embargoed the Japanese Grand Prix many years’ ago because of the intensity of your hatred for all things Japanese. I implored you to reconsider, but you wouldn’t have any of it. I tried explaining to you that the three “S”s, Siverstone, Spa and Suzuka were Formula One’s Crown Jewels and that the only one I had not been to was Suzuka, but this broke no ice with you. I told you that I felt unfulfilled, that I broke out in a cold sweat every year when the build-up to the Japanese Grand Prix began, but you were not moved. I offered to fly out alone for just 3 days and stay in a budget hotel, but you would not even pay attention to me. Japan was Japan and it was not up for negotiation. Oh, Herm, how you made me suffer!

Well, this year, I told myself that things would be different; I was going to Suzuka, Hermione embargo or no Hermione embargo. My plan was to order my race and travel tickets and not breathe a word about them to you until the day before I was due to leave this week. That way, I figured, I would limit my time in the purgatory you would inevitably make of our flat.

.

On the morning when the tickets arrived a couple of months’ ago – I, of course, took the precaution of having everything delivered to me at work – I had a meeting in the West End and was travelling there by tube on the Central Line. It was a hot, busy day and we were packed into the fetid tube like bally sardines. The gods were smiling on me, though, because opposite me was the most bewitchingly beautiful Japanese girl I had ever seen in my life. She didn’t observe the unwritten rule of London Underground etiquette – perhaps it was just her natural confidence – and made eye contact with me for the entire time she was standing there. This was just as well because I could see that the heat and lack of air was seriously distressing her. 

The tube lurched and then came to a standstill mid-tunnel. Suddenly, I saw the girl’s legs begin to buckle and only just managed to grab her before she fell to the floor. As soon as the train stopped at the next station, I dragged her out, sat her down and gave her some of my water.

The girl recovered quickly enough and turned out to be very charming indeed. I asked her if she wanted a coffee and we went together to the nearest Café Nero. We got chatting and she told me her name was Kazumi and that she was an artist. This won’t make pleasant reading for you, Herm, and I am sorry to put you through this, but I have to tell you the truth – I was smitten. I felt as though I had been struck by a bolt of lightning. Anyway, I won’t labour you with any of the gory details, but Kazumi and I have been an item since.

Well, after you found us, we scuttled out of the flat as quickly as we could and got dressed in the corridor outside while you tried to lift your jaw from the floor. We decided to bring forward our travel plans to the weekend and have been holed up in a suite at the Mandarin Oriental since Sunday. 

Why am I splurging like this? Am I suddenly made of money? Well, Kazumi and I got married on Monday and I am happier than I have ever been. That’s what credit cards are for, Herm.

The funny thing is that I am not looking forward to the Grand Prix. Not that it will be a rubbish race, far from it. Suzuka always produces a right corker. It is the only figure-eight race track on the F1 calendar, it’s fast and it is very challenging. The trouble is the company Kazumi and I will be forced to endure at Suzuka. 

Do you remember the Pussycat doll, Nicole Sherzinger? You never seemed to like her much, did you Herm? Well, Kazumi, for her sins, loves her! We bumped into her in the hotel lobby and have been having drinks and meals with her a little too often for my liking. The bally woman has her jaw wired to the American electricity grid! She just won’t belt-up! She insists that we join her in the Mercedes team hospitality area like VIPs on Saturday and Sunday. I don’t mind telling you, Herm, but that went down like a cup of cold sick when I heard it.

As I write, Nicole and Kazumi are downstairs having cocktails but I can’t bring myself to join them. I mean to say, what is the bloody point of that. Or much, come to that.

I reckon the battle between Lewis Hamilton and Nico Rosberg has now swung decisively in Hamilton’s favour. Rosberg is not a patch on Hamilton as a driver, but he has a good brain and he was doing Hamilton over in the brain department. Having now met Hamilton's bird, I think I have some idea why!

By the way, Herm, do you remember that quirky artist John Duffin whose work we discovered at the old Betty Morton Gallery in Brixton? Well, he has produced some wonderful new stuff on London recently. You ought to check it out.

I won’t be leaving Japan ever which, since you won’t come out here because of your crazy embargo, effectively means that you and I will never see one another again. After 12 years, I am deeply sorry to say goodbye like this, my darling Hermione, but I am sure you will have a happy life. You always were a toughie. Anyway, sayonara Herm. Look after yourself.

All my love

Yours aye

Malcolm”

The letter was emailed to Hermione Urquhart Page yesterday evening. This morning a framed oil painting by John Duffin depicting a typical London scene arrived at Hermione's flat accompanied by a note that said the following:

“Isn’t this lovely?

Malcolm”

Mrs Kazumi Turnbull returned to her hotel suite yesterday evening to find Malcolm Turnbull lying dead in his bath. He had slashed his wrists.

I never knew Turnbull to be a sentimental chap, so I think it would be consistent of him to have treated a diagnosis of terminal cancer in this practical manner.

The puzzling thing is, despite his professed love for Suzuka, he didn’t wait until Monday. Curious chap, Turnbull.

Gitau

1 October 2014