I sometimes eat lunch with a close friend who has but one child, a toddler aged 2. He likes to show me photographs.

"Here," he puffs, easing up beside me and trailing a wagon stacked with folders. "These are the shots from today's breakfast, just developed. Yesterday's load I had shipped straight to the restaurant."

Soon he may have to add a room to his house to store the excess footage. Or perhaps relocate to Hokkaido, where a wider land can conceivably hold more.