Tokyo, 2am Saturday 2nd December

Hello! I write from a hotel between the Japanese Sword Museum and the National Sumo Arena. I landed at half nine local time, took a while to get through security, took a monorail, and arrives at the hotel just before midnight.

On my way, I saw the traditional Friday night sight of salarymen asleep, bent double, on the platform, the last train a forgotten dream.

I’m just over the Sumida river from Akihabara, if that helps you pintpoint me in your mind.

The staff weren’t very helpful, and have given me a lower floor room when I specifically booked one high up for that “oh lord, I’m in Tokyo” William Gibson first night experience, with red blinking lights and buildings seemingly rising from the ruins via nanobot technology, or else, jet lag.

Not to worry. The main thing was the hotel spa will still open – til 2am! – and so I have sat in assorted hot baths, had bubbles fired at me from various angles, and become cleaner than an Englishman has any right to.

I have missed Japanese style bathing so very much.

I should sleep. It’s 5pm GMT and I have largely been awake since Wednesday morning UK time.

But I’m too wired, so I’ll write up my day 1 diary. If I manage to do this most days of the trip, I’ll collate the best bits and stick it in a newsletter.

Here’s what I wrote earlier.

Beijing Airport, 1st December. 13:17 local time (05:18 in the UK)

Hello. For the first time in five years, I have flown abroad. I know these issues are systemic and the phrase carbon footprint was invented by oil marketeers to disavow responsibility. Still, climate guilt is never far from the surface of my mind

This pushed deep, deep down, I got a cheap flight to Tokyo, in that strange dead period before Christmas, to see a friend I’ve not seen in a long time amid the fear if I didn’t go now I’d never see her again.

I’m flying via Air China, and am writing this first entry during an interminable connection (I said the flights were cheap) in Beijing airport’s international terminal.

I did not sleep on the plane, as the seats were designed by an insane person who hates human comfort. I imagine he hides, uncomfortably, in the overhead baggage compartment, watching through his peep hole as economy class twist, lean, and squirm their way to liminal insomniac neverwhere.

After a few hours of not sleeping, I gave up, and watched half a romcom about an ageing Chinese hipster called Mr B, recorded a cover (minus vocals obviously) on GarageBand, and then listened to the dirty, sodden folk of Lisa O’Neill, who said goodbye just as the dawn arrived.

I had taken off to the news that a war criminal, a centrist technocrat, and a punk-folk legend had all died. Though they were not, I am assured, travelling in the same minibus. 

Beijing international airport is large, impressive, empty, and cold. International transfer involves being shouted at by some women with bright yellow truncheons, having your photograph taken multiple times, and then descending to the sight of a defeated costa coffee and a Dutch teenager asleep next to a plastic panda in a kids play area.

Trust me, he’s a permanent feature.

There’s not much else bar a hidden KFC, duty free shops with plenty of staff and no customers, and two vast escalators leading to nowhere, used by no one.

This is the one airport where I can pick as many fights with the local security as I like, as I know a diplomat who is posted in this particular capital, and as we know Britain has an unrivalled international reputation these days.

I just messaged him. He passed through here 90 minutes ago and is in Seoul for the weekend.

I am on my own, and will find a corner of the airport to call my own.

Next stop Tokyo.