And so, with nary a 'How'd you do?', February encroaches upon our lives. What's to be said for you? You're cold, I'll give you that. 'Coldest month in the Japanese calendar' I'm severely informed, as if I was unable to register the temperature change dermatologically. Grateful you're a short one. Month.

Ah, February - keeper of Valentines and a certain birthday of little note - how much longer must we cling to inadequate clothing, fantasising thermal underwear and smoking cigarettes for the fire that's in them?

Outside Family Mart, 7.50 am, awaiting the black Nissan that conveys me schoolward and tears form in the eyes. The wind's doing? Or the result of reminiscing the central heating, chicken soup and sausages abundant in a smaller island on the other side of the world?

I want my futon. All that body heat awasting. Took me eight hours to build it up. I want bed and bacon. Must have bacon, and soon. Bacon wrapped around little sausages. A roast! A roast bird. Chicken! Alas, no whole chickens to be bought in supermarkets here - just pieces, body parts. There's a chicken farm next to Kusumi Junior High - hear them shrieking all day. Steal in there one evening, intimidate the staff with my superior physical prescence - no need for violence - and make off with a prize, plump hen. Homeward. Up the stairs. In the door. Out with the pans. Cast about for vegetables. Chicken running amok, shitting on the tatami. Cleaver. Head off. Still running about. 1 minute. Flops ridiculously to the floor. I laugh at it's carcass. Chicken laughs last, even in death. No oven you see. Japan. No ovens. Fish grill. No oven.

Out to the balcony (warmer out there) with coffee and toast. Gaze about. Oh, February - there is some joy in you! Look at the mountains. White tops. Glorious. 12 months of the year they endure, waiting to shine like this for the meagre 28 days you offer. 28 days. You'll make us feel every one of them.