Lost For Words

Well I am, but it's happening while I'm sitting in the Barefoot garden cafe, so I'm thinking that it's okay, that the novelty factor of writing and publishing a post when I'm here will make up for a total lack of substance and content.

I just went to Majestic City and found out that they've built a new entrance at the side where the KFC is. It's swish and flash, which sound like the names of two of the reindeer owned by a superhero Father Christmas I know. It's all clean and smart, but there were no beggars. They used to be a pain and now they're not there it feels strange. One thing's for sure; they haven't ceased to be poor.

The garden here is as atmospheric as ever. A scattering of people, all white and me. Not only are they white but they look French. There's that mixture of sexy, stylish and good looking with the obligatory ugly one who has no sense of style. That's the thing about groups of Frenchies isn't it? There's always at least one who looks as if she's just stepped out of a page in Vogue.

Yesterday I must admit I ate far too many string hoppers, perhaps the more mental among you might say far too much food. Breakfast was strings, chicken curry, white potato curry, parippu and pol sambol. I ate with the pleasure that it deserved and the discipline of a monk. One rather serious plateful later and I was done. I sat back with a feeling of repleteness and a little smugness, knowing that I would eat no more, that my willpower was good.

I was wrong. I followed up with two pastry things and some whipped cream and jam, a tragic waste of stomach space I know.

Lunch was the Gallery Cafe's black pork curry, as I was being still maintaining my healthy balance thing. I was accompanied by a rather beautiful woman as it happens, so only ate one main course.

Dinner was string hoppers again with more accompaniments than I can recollect. I was told that the average amount of strings a Sri Lankan man eats in a sitting is twenty. I ate a mere fifteen of the red type, which are a bit heavier. I guess it was a performance well below par, if par is twenty, but I'm a sceptic there.

So I'm out with that. The temperature here is hot, the ambience is cool, the mellow jazz is chilled and the French people are cold. That's life.

Oh and I'm off to have lunch.

This is hard work.