It's easy to be big in Tokyo

On the Floor

Tokyo, here I am. Thanks to Rory's incredibly scientific way of choosing a temporary stand-in for Hari - pulling names out of a hat - I have been condemned to a short spell in this bustling metropolis at a not-very-wonderful time in its financial life. Still, the trip began well, with an upgrade on the plane from business class to first. Just as well I dressed smartly, I thought, until I realised that there were still only four of us in first. I could probably have worn a tutu and a leather jacket and been upgraded.

After a good feed and a decent amount of sleep on the way over, I landed in reasonably chipper mood, and headed straight for the office. To say that Jamie was pleased to see me there would be a massive understatement. He looked exhausted, with that terrible pallor you get in winter from spending your whole waking life under fluorescent lights breathing recycled air. Nevertheless, he summoned up the strength to leap out of his chair and give me a huge welcoming hug.

I'm not usually greeted by business friends like this, of course, but Jamie is an exception. I went out for one glorious summer with his beautiful baby brother Charlie, who was in my year at university, and spent loads of time at the parents' gaff pretending to enjoy hunt balls and trapping rabbits just so I could be with my true love.

Irreconcilable differences finally drove us apart, of course, what with me being a town bird and him a country mouse. But Jamie has kept an eye on my career ever since, and it was largely thanks to him that I landed this job in the first place. So I'm prepared to forgive him a few bruised ribs in the circs.

"What news of Hari?" I ask as soon as I have my breath back.

"Not too bad," Jamie tells me. "He's getting the best treatment possible. After all, he can afford it with the money he earns here."

"Ah, yes," I say, drily, "one of the supreme ironies of our modern world. The more high-powered your job, the more you can afford the medical care you will inevitably need when the stress of working so hard makes you crack up."

And then it's down to business. The days power by, with lots of deals being priced up but nothing actually traded. Nobody really knows what's going to happen next, and they veer between optimism and pessimism within a single sentence. Not surprisingly, no one wants to commit to a deal that lasts five years when they don't know, to paraphrase that irritating little orphan Annie, whether the sun really will come out tomorrow.

To keep our spirits up, Jamie has arranged a whole slew of dinners at Tokyo's best eateries with various other European exiles. There's Dusty's Crab Parlour, all done out in Americana, where we gorge ourselves stupid on, well, crabs. There's Wasae, where we eat sushi and run up a bill the size of a small African country's debt. And there's Girl Bicycle Rabbit, the trendiest restaurant in town, where they serve what I can only describe as British tapas: dainty slices of black pudding on tiny oatcakes, dinky little bowls of mashed potato with miniature sausages, that sort of thing.

The scale of the food only emphasises the smallness of everything else in Tokyo (apart from the buildings). My favourite game involves being seated with Jamie on the underground and then standing up. Not too thrilling, you might think, but I'm six feet tall in my heels so there are murmurs of surprise as I stretch myself up. And then Jamie unfolds himself, all six-foot-eight of him, and everyone gasps in horror, but very politely.

I revel in the feeling of power for days afterwards, at least until I find myself in a department store trying to buy more underwear. The salesgirl bows and scrapes beautifully, before rushing off anxiously to find someone more senior who speaks English. An older woman returns. "Please sorry," she says as if she'd really rather not. "This extra-large size not having."