Skip to main content

Grouch



There must be some good explanation for the fact that in Japan, a country notorious for allowing its citizens to work themselves to death (such that there's even a special term for it karoushi 過労死)—there are more public holidays than you can shake a stick at.

Grrr! As  someone at the other end of things in terms of employment conditions, it's completely infuriating and frustrating: it seems like hardly a week goes by but there's yet another public holiday when I can't get anything done because the children are off school once again, asking what we are going to do today? In point of fact, Sean doesn't return to school until the 18th January, while Julian has an extra day off nursery this week just to ensure that I cannot prepare classes or do any research. I love my children dearly, but it would be nice to be able to get through a two week period in the calendar without another scheduled interruption.

Of course, it might be well argued that if I stopped grumbling and did some proper work, now, instead of writing this, I could enjoy the public holidays. There is something to that argument, but even so, I'd still have a lot of dead time on my hands. I just checked, you see: of the five countries surveyed Japan leads the world by far:
  1. Japanese Public Holidays 15
  2. French National Holidays 11
  3. US Federal Holidays 10 (11 in Washington DC)
  4. German public and religious holidays 8-12 (varies by federal state)
  5. England & Wales Bank Holidays 8
Now, I know that many Japanese workers don't take all or any of these holidays, and that even if they do, they may well have no other personal holiday time in the year—which partly explains the apparent discrepancy, also that "pulling a sickie" appears to be as alien to the Japanese mentality as marmalade and brie sandwiches are to the Japanese palate—actually, this one might be just me!—but still, enough is enough, and it's only the middle of January. Bah! Humbug!

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Turbulence (Thanks for all the fish, and more)

[Note: this piece is not about about my family, nor does it involve literary or musical criticism. I’m not anticipating any attractive illustrations or other lures, and no musical accompaniment either. So if that’s what you came for, look away now. There will be more such articles in the future, I hope, but this is not one of them. You have been been warned.] Tokushima Naruto Whirlpool (Shikoku Excursion) Events of the last few days have left me, both literally and figuratively, in a painfully disordered state of mind. In plain English, I’m stressed, and my head aches. Actually, it twinges, rather than aches, but the precise description matters little; at all events, the pain ‘comes and goes’, as they say. (Where pain goes to, when it goes, is a puzzle in itself. I have this anthropomorphised image of Pain, like some peripatetic poison dwarf, doing the rounds of the neighbourhood: “Hi, Nigel didn’t want me this hour, so I’ve decided to drop in on you for a while. Don’t worry thoug...

What's love got to do with it?

Click here to play the first track [Youtube] When I was young/My father said Son, I have something to say And what he told me I'll never forget Until my dying day... ( Cliff Richard, Bachelor Boy, 1963) Since just after Justin's birth, I have tried to be positive and optimistic about our future, and particularly about the challenges presented by his condition. Sometimes, as will have been clear from other posts, this positivity is aided by an ostrich-like refusal to contemplate future eventualities, but mostly, it's because I feel we've been really lucky: he had no postnatal medical complications; he's loved and accepted by his brothers, he's growing well; there's even a hint of a smile on his face... There are some days, though, when optimism seems like an overwhelming challenge,  days when I almost lose the will to move forward, and when I look around for a large tub of sand (something, like litter bins, that is in desperately short supply in u...

Cambridge Blues ('Foundationed deep')

"I" Staircase, Trinity Hall, Cambridge  This weekend past, I returned to Cambridge with Ayumi, Julian and Justin for the first time in seven years. The occasion was a college reunion dinner, marking approximately 40 years of life since matriculation (1980, 1981, 1982, 1983 entrance years): about half of us (~50) from each annual cohort turned up to compare notes, reminisce, squeeze our sagging frames into formal evening wear, and report biographical highlights. It is worth noting that this was a self-selecting group: those with sufficient time, opportunity, income (it wasn't a cheap weekend break), self-regard and retained affection for their alma mater to trundle up; as bushy tailed and 'Hail fellow, well met', as age and misanthropy might allow.  Sic transit gloria iuvenum. I didn't have a great time, nor yet was it a disastrous waste. This is hardly surprising, since the curse of middle age is profound ambivalence about almost every extra-familial event or ...