It rapidly became inevitable that my annual trip to Fukushima would be cancelled: I was due to go less than a week after the earthquake. No explanations were asked for and none was given. After all, every contract I have ever signed has included a standard clause about force majeure — it is always taken for granted and assumed it will never be invoked — and here suddenly I was presented with the most complete definition of that phrase I could ever expect to encounter.
The job in question was to judge the all-Nippon Choral Competition, which I had done for the previous three years. In so doing I had got to know not only the town of Fukushima and its delights, but also the people who run the Symphony Hall there, including the prefect of the province. This amiable and melodious politician had turned the competition into a big banner for his occupation of office, and it had helped him to re-election last autumn.
Now instead of singing tenor to his electorate he is dealing with the possibility of leaking nuclear radiation, a massive refugee problem and a cracked symphony hall.
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