A beautiful day beckoned me on with the sweet aroma of orchids, lilies, marigolds and for some reason, the salty tears of Sega Executives. The garden was once again in full bloom, and I hurried anxiously to the place where Miyamoto-San sat, his hands clasped between his hairy knees idly wiggling his toes in thepair of Barbie-print socks I had bought for his birthday.

Before the great man knelt a Lower-Assistant, his head bowed in profound respect for Miyamoto-San, who occasionally stuck his finger in his nose and gently flicked the sticky green coverings at the Lower-Assistant. The man was mumbling incoherently as I approached, his voice became more distinct, like the echoes of a ten-generation-curse, as I drew closer.

“Miyamoto-san,” the man fairly whispered. “Miyamoto-san, we are so far behind in our projects that we beg you to bring your greatness to the office and whip us into a more efficient mood of productivity.”

For a moment, Miyamoto-san considered this in a reposed attitude, like a ten-generation-curse that is about to fall upon a family embittered with gratitude. When he finally spoke, it was with a voice like Mickey Mouse.

“I shall visit the office” he squeaked. “But only on condition that you prepare for me, as a sign of great respect, a ten-generation-curse and fresh dumplings. And bag of freshest lilies and pickled onion Monster Munch to hide the foul stench of your worthless failure from my delicate nostrils. Now go!” He punctuated the last exclamation by flicking a particularly large lump of green mucus at the Lower-Assistant, who quickly got to his feet and kowtowed his way out of the garden.

Miyamoto-san finally recognised I was here and pulled his hands out of his faded Bermuda shorts, beckoning me to sit beside him. He gently rammed his finger into my right ear, wiggling the nail around forcefully before yanking it out again. He examined the brown wax on the end of his finger: it looked something like a ten-generation-curse as he lifted it to his mouth and licked it delicately. Miyamoto-san grimaced uncomfortably.

“Your wife, my young friend, has not yet learned the correct way to prepare cold noodles. Is there a ten-generation-curse on her family? You would have been wise to have enquired before marrying as to the state of curses on her ancestors. A three-generation-curse would have been fine: those women always cook the finest fish; a seven-generation-curse girl has delicate hands and can sew. Rarer still are the twenty-generation-curse girls, whose skin is like silk and their marmalade on toast is to die for.. You made an imprudent match, my friend.”

I replied only with a nod as a sign of great respect. Miyamoto-san continued.

“Failure, it seems, encroaches upon us even in my glorious garden. Note how beautiful the orchids are at this time of year: their petals are delicate like the words of a ten-generation-curse, and thir scent floats gently through the whole garden. Such a glorious place. I draw much of my inspiration from the wder world, my friend, but let me tell you how one day my garden inspired me.

“It was the dead of summer, the snow fell in great flurries all around, drift after drift of icy, delicate snow flakes covered the soil and the fully-blookming flowers. All was still.”

He paused as a wary-looking servant girl tiptoed to us bringing a tray of herbal tea. Miyamoto worldlessly filled a cup and handed it to the girl, bidding her drink with a wave of his hand. She did so willingly, with a smile as beautiful as a ten-generation-curse on her lips. She bowed to Myamoto-san for his kindness, ten keeled over stone dead. He laughed and clapped his hands.

“But where was the poison? In the tea? No!” He drank deeply from the bowl of tea in front of him. “It was laced around the rim of the cup, like the hidden anger of a ten-generation-curse! Marvellous! Now, where was I? Oh, yes.”

Two more servant girls kowtowed to us as they dragged the slowly stiffening body of their companion away.

“It was, I remember a beautiful Winters morning in July when I took a stroll through my garden. I had enjoyed that morning my breakfast of wet tissues and rice and felt the warmth of inspiration flowing through me like the seeds of a ten-generation-curse.”

“On the paths I saw ants, marching in rows, the heavy soil was deep wth flowers, discarded bottle caps and pieaces of a small spaceship I was going to use to fly to the moon. I saw insects battling insects, flowers struggling through the shade and little rivulets of water everywhere.”

“At the back of my garden, I have a small patch set out for growing my own vegetables and special ten-generation curses. At this time in the Spring, the patcwas filled with tiny carrots. As I stumbled from one patch to the other it seemed to me that the breeze carried ith it the whisper of th words “Pick me! Pick me” staring down at the carrots I could perceive that some of them were struggling for freedom as the insects and worms crawled all about them.”

What if, I thought, what if these carrots could be torn from the ground, with their cries of “pick me” and be used as my own private army? What if these tiny creatures could help me rebuild my miniature spaceship and fly me back to the moon where I belong? It would indeed be a great ten-generation-curse if such a thing was possible!”

“Frantically I tore off my Bermuda shorts and began to scribble furiously on them, using the moist soil and my finger as a pen. It began to rain, washing my words away with a fury that only nature or a really good ten-generation-curse can muster. Still I went on unabashed: I wrote everything I saw, everything I could perceive and all the wonders of the universe at my command. Finaly, screaming out loud I lay back in the dirt, exhausted. For how long I remained there I do not know, but I wept, wept as the rivers of rain cascaded down my face, mingling with the filth and grime that surrounded me.”

"When Yokoi-san –who I remember had been dead for ten years at that point, dragged my wet, muddy body back to the house I had found all the inspiration I needed to create one of the all –time classics of our honoured company.”

“Duck Hunt.”