The zabuton shifts gently under me when I cross my legs. Smoothing down the pleats of my dress, I watch the comings and goings of other spectators. A man adjacent me has returned with a colourful box of yakitori and a ochoko cup of sake. The chicken smells delicious but I have already eaten. I have a small box of omochi should I get peckish. The final juryo match has just finished and we are all eager for the top rikishi to enter the dohyo. All the seats around me are now taken.

I have always sat in the ringside seats, ever since my late husband and I began to attend Grand Sumo Tournaments. That was ten years ago. We were lucky indeed that he knew a prominent oyakata. Every two months a plain envelope with a pair of tickets would appear in the post box. We went to the sumo most days and even though I wasn't a big fan of the sport, it was one of the few things we did together. After he passed way, the tickets continued to find their way in the mail. That is why I am here.

Sometimes friends see me on the television because I am so close to the dohyo. They don't say anything directly like, "Oh, we saw you at the sumo last night", because they don't want to give offence or raise old memories. It's just, "You're a TV star", followed by a nervous laugh. They mean well and want to keep up a conversation, so I mention a favourite wrestler or a particular kimono that I liked. I never wear a kimono to the sumo but other women do. Sometimes I imagine what pattern I would wear if I did.

Today the prominent oyakata is sitting ringside on the right of a gyoji. I often see him there in the role of a shimpan, jumping to his feet should the result of a bout be in question. He does not acknowledge me but I know that he sees me. We have an understanding and I do not want to compromise him, for sumo is a sport that is unforgiving of any transgression. Where he gets the tickets from I do not ask, and never shall.

I am quite tall for a Japanese woman. There was a time when I might have become a model, before I married. Sometimes, when I do happen to catch myself on a TV broadcast, I am startled by how rigidly I sit, how high I seem. I am composed, utterly. I don't know what to think of that. When each bout ends, I applaud politely, my hands gently raised, as if in prayer.