# 忘れ得ぬ人々 - Show: 東京ポッド許可局 - Published: 2026-10-16 - Canonical: https://podc.club/en/episode/1123725677_a4f1f2d8caf8.html - Audio: https://pdst.fm/e/pscrb.fm/rss/p/traffic.megaphone.fm/TBS8268036006.mp3 - Source: Edited from a machine transcript of the first 30 minutes of the episode. Not an official summary. This episode of Tokyo Pod Kyokakyoku (東京ポッド許可局) features two listener letters for the 'Wasurenu Hitobito' segment — stories of people you never seek out but can never quite forget. A junior-high music teacher who played piano like the room was on fire, and a salary man who said one sentence on his last day at work, set the three hosts talking about the strange experience of seeing your younger self in a stranger. ## What this episode answers ### What kind of person was music teacher Y-sensei that the 'Megane ni Megane' listener cannot forget, and why did she leave such a strong impression? Y-sensei looked nervous and uptight — upswept glasses, tightly wound — but turned out to be a woman who embodied pure joy in music: she played piano at full tilt regardless of pitch or tempo, and her infectious enthusiasm pulled even guarded teenagers into singing along. The single year she taught left a memory so vivid the listener still smiles thinking about it. ### How did the 'Semishigure' listener later come to interpret Mr. A's act of speaking to a young stranger on his retirement day? At the time the listener was caught off guard and could only manage a flat 'Oh, is that so?' — but decades later, now watching stiff young people in new suits from the same platform, they understand that Mr. A's words were a time-delayed cheer: 'I'm done, but you're just starting — hang in there.' ### Do the hosts ever see their younger selves in young people today, and in what situations? Tatsuo sees himself in the young kendoka at the dojo near his home and feels a strong urge to say 'You enjoying kendo? Hang in there' — though he holds back; Kashiwa-san finds his younger tastes alive in his daughter, who gravitates on her own toward Showa- and Heisei-era content like Odoru Daisosasen and 24-Hour Television. ### What happened in the 'final 15 minutes' of Y-sensei's class that made it the highlight of every lesson? In the final 15 minutes Y-sensei would launch into a furious medley on the piano; students scrambled to keep up vocally, energy built to a peak, and the bell rang at exactly that peak — leaving the entire class smiling as they walked out. ### What did Tatsuo announce he would continue talking about in next week's episode? Tatsuo said he had started to wonder whether he might not be as much of an outsider in how he views comedy as he had assumed, and asked if he could pick up that thread next week. ## Article ## The 'Wasurenu Hitobito' Corner 'Wasurenu Hitobito' (People I Cannot Forget) is a listener segment built around a feeling everyone recognizes: someone drifts back into your mind out of nowhere — not someone you want to call, just someone who quietly refuses to leave. Two letters were read this episode, both of which opened onto a bigger conversation about seeing your younger self in the face of a stranger. Everyone whose letter is read receives a sticker. ## Music Teacher Y-sensei (from the 'Megane ni Megane' listener) This letter grew out of a remark host Makita had made in an earlier episode suggesting music class was unnecessary. The 'Megane ni Megane' listener wrote in to recall Y-sensei, who taught them music for one year in first-year junior high school. The school was a rough place — yankii ran the halls, and teachers' discipline frequently went too far. Y-sensei arrived looking tightly wound: upswept glasses, a manner that read as nervous. Then she spoke. A voice big enough to raise a theatre curtain took hold of the room in seconds. Y-sensei's defining quality was that she literally embodied the Japanese word for music — *on-gaku*, 'enjoy sound.' Off-pitch, off-tempo: she did not care. She kept playing and broke into song whenever the mood struck. Her unguarded enthusiasm wore down even the wariest teenagers; before long the whole class was singing at full volume. The highlight was the final 15 minutes of every lesson. Y-sensei would tear through a medley at furious speed; students pushed their voices to keep up; the energy climbed and climbed — and just as it peaked, the bell rang. Every person in the room walked out smiling. A perfect ending, every single time. 'I have no desire to meet her again,' the listener wrote, 'but I can't help wondering whether she's still running the same joyful classes at some other school.' ## The Salary Man Who Said One Thing on His Last Day (from the 'Semishigure' listener, Kyoto) The 'Semishigure' listener, who mentioned that their own retirement countdown had already begun, shared a memory from fewer than two years into their career. Every morning they shared the same train car with a salary man — Mr. A — without ever exchanging a word. Then one morning Mr. A spoke: 'Today is my last day at work. Watching you has reminded me of myself nearly 40 years ago. I'm sorry for speaking to you out of the blue.' He left, and that was that. At the time the listener could only stammer 'Oh, is that so?' and the conversation was over. Decades later, now standing on the platform watching stiff young people in brand-new suits, they finally understand what Mr. A was saying: *I'm done, but you're just starting — hang in there.* The face and voice of a man whose name they never knew remain perfectly clear. The hosts greeted this with wonder: 'Like Fujiko F. Fujio' — 'It has an SF quality, like your future self traveled back in time to say something to you.' ## 'Seeing Your Younger Self in a Young Person' — The Hosts' Own Experiences Both letters opened the floor to the hosts' own versions of the same feeling. Tatsuo (達夫) spoke about the young kendoka at the dojo near his house. He watches the boy and thinks, *that was me*. The urge to say something grows strong, but he holds back. If he ever did speak, he figures it would come out as: 'Hey — you enjoying kendo? Hang in there, it's tough,' delivered with some awkwardness. Kashiwa-san (柏さん) noted that his daughter has drifted on her own toward Showa- and Heisei-era content: she started watching Odoru Daisosasen (踊る大捜査線) from episode one and gravitates toward 24-Hour Television, none of it introduced by him. 'I have no idea why,' he said, quietly delighted to find his own younger tastes somehow alive in her. Tatsuo also flagged a separate thread that came up during a discussion about how he perceives comedy. He said he had started to wonder whether he might not be as much of an outsider — on the non-mainstream side — as he had always assumed, and asked if he could continue that conversation next week, hinting at a follow-up episode. ## Takeaways - A person you 'cannot forget' is not someone you want to contact — they are someone quietly etched into a deep layer of memory, and recalling them brings your former self flooding back with them. - The single sentence Mr. A spoke on his retirement day was a time-delayed cheer that could only be understood once the listener reached the same age and stood in the same shoes. - As people grow older they naturally shift from being the young stranger to being the one who wants to say something — Mr. A, Tatsuo, and Kashiwa-san have all passed through, or are passing through, that same transition.