s the muffled rumblings of a motorbike breached my thin-walled sanctuary, long idle synapses fired and conspired to trick me into hearing the familiar sounds of the night watchman (yomawari) puttering about the narrow, twisted lanes of my old neighbourhood in Japan. Just the right pattern of speed up, slow down, round an intersection, repeat. Eight years living in Japan had turned this midnight cacophony from annoyance into comfort. All good then. Just keep sleeping. But the sound drew closer, louder, and as it roared past the house and into the distance, there was no mistaking the sound of a quad bike. Worse, I could clearly hear it turn right and head
