The thing is that bowing – and being bowed to – just makes everyone feel so much better. The bow seems to say, I respect you, I care about you, I hope that you have a great day. What’s not to like?

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I’m thinking that we should import the bow right now. Along with heated toilet seats and cherry blossoms en masse that rain down their pretty pink petals whenever there’s a breeze. The bow would solve all sorts of things like the awkward post-pandemic elbow greeting, the slobbery aunty kiss, the limp-fish handshake.

Imagine if we incorporated the bow into our driving habits. No more road rage, just a pleasant exchange of bows over the steering wheel to say, “you go first”, “No, no, I insist you go first”. And if you crashed into the back of a Volvo, you could jump out of the car, bow deeply and simply exchange insurance details. Further apologies and tyre kicking not needed. It would be such a kinder world.

The only time I was slightly unnerved by the bow was taking the lift to the top of Tokyo Tower to get a big-city view. The lift officer’s job was to usher a fearsome number of tourists into a lift the size of a sushi plate.

Once we were all squeezed in, facing the closing door in stunned silence – just who’s holding whose hands? – the officer stepped back, bowed low, and pressed a gloved digit onto the button that would send our capsule into space.

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The bow was like a silent prayer – I hope you make it out alive but if you don’t, I’m fair dinkum devastated.

Clearly, we did, as a second lift officer was there to receive us on “landing”, with another deep bow that said, “Well done. You survived the trip. You were successful as I believe you will always be in life. I won’t write to you when you return to Australia, but I will always respect you”.

And that is the beauty of the bow. It says just what you want to hear without so much as making a sound.