Babacycle.

When acquiring a nickname, there are a few basic requirements.

The first is that it subtly, and yet poignantly, points towards one or more of the qualities you want made public knowledge: if you are good in bed, you want this known; if you are prone to breaking hearts, you want the opposite sex to be aware of it; if you are unfairly elegant, beautiful, intelligent or witty, it should be known as widely as possible. The second is that it creates an identity with which you will be forever associated: one that condenses the essence of who you are into an identifiable, pinpointable form and allows it to be recognised by others. The third is that it's not one you're embarrassed to have shouted at you in a supermarket.

After much consideration, I have decided that 'baba' (grandma) ticks absolutely none of these boxes.

The first strike was when I searched in my handbag and offered my friend a sweet.
"Where the hell did that come from?" she said, looking at it as if it might start moving.
"My bag," I told her, rather obviously.
"Where in your bag?"
"Oh, I don't know," I said. "Somewhere in there. Don't worry, it doesn't have fluff on it. I checked."
And then I dropped my bag and coins rolled out on the floor.
"You," she said as she bent down to help me pick them up, "are such an old lady."
"Hey - these sweets are thoroughly modern sweets," I responded indignantly.

The second strike was when we turned up at the onsen, and out of the boot of my car I produced a little pink basket filled with a sponge and a back scrubber and a toenail scrub and a little hair towel and a little bottle of moisturiser and a little rolley thing to roll on your face and make you look younger.
"Tell me you don't have an onsen basket in the boot of your car," she said.
"You can see I do."
"You realise that's a little old lady basket, right?"
"No it isn't. It's a perfectly logical way to carry everything around."
"But why do you need all of that stuff?"
"Well I need all these things to get clean properly, don't I."
My friend looked at me, and then - after a long silence - she shook her head and said:
"Old lady Smaley."

The third strike was spread far and wide when I turned up to a beach party with my bike.
"What the bloody hell are you riding?" about six people yelled at me.
"My bike," I told them. "Cool, isn't it? Look, I personalised it."
"Why does it have a large green plastic basket tied to the back with shoelaces?"
"So I can carry my shopping, obviously."
"Haha - it's BaBa and her BaBacycle."
"You won't be laughing," I told them with my nose in the air, "when I can carry far more beer than any of you."
But, as it turned out, they were; because it was me that had to carry all of it, while they raced ahead with their ten speed numbers and I huffed and puffed behind them on my own with just my little bell to keep me occupied.

The fourth and final strike was today, when I turned up for a beach picnic. Due to a little absent mindedness - and due to being a little bit preoccupied with The Mill On The Floss - I accidentally sat on the beach yesterday in a t-shirt and shorts and burnt the buggery out of my arms, neck and face: proving - if there was any doubt - that English people abroad are exactly what the stereotype of them is. Which means that today I took a few precautions to make sure I didn't do it again.
"Baba, what are you wearing?"
"I'm protecting myself from the sun."
"We can see that. You're wearing arm mufflers on a beach."
"Do you like them? I got them for 100 yen. And look at my hat! It has a little bow on it."
"Uhuh. And you're wearing a scarf. In July."
"To protect my neck."
"Oh Baba," one of my friends laughed. "You really are the cutest."
"I'm not cute," I said, sticking my nose even further in the air. "I am emminently sensible, and when you're all burnt I shall be laughing at you all and waving my arm mufflers in your faces."

I didn't get to wave anything, unfortunately; the sun managed to find my nose anyway, and while my friends all got golden glows, I got a bright red centre of face.

My nickname, thus, is set, although luckily not for long: these friends all leave Nichinan at the end of the week, and I get to start all over again.

With the next set of friends, I am going to be cultivating an entirely different nickname. I'm not sure what it will be yet, but it won't have anything to do with little old ladies.

And I think my bike might need a new makeover.