Confidence and Accents

I read this post and the comments it generated with lots of interest, then this one turned up too. It's a subject I was talking about recently with a friend and one in which I am fascinated.

I have come to a conclusion that people of all sorts DO change their voice and accent in order to blend in with their surroundings and environment. But the amount that a person will change their voice or accent is a direct reflection of the amount of self confidence the person has. It's something I have concluded after some, although hardly statistically significant, observation of people who do a lot of public speaking and presentations.

The people who have a large dose of self confidence are the ones whose accent remains largely unchanged wherever they are. The ones who lack self confidence, at least in some areas, are the ones who try to change their voice to suit the environment. It makes perfect sense to me, it's a reflection of a person's security in themselves.

Accents are also key to a person's identity aren't they? How often do we judge a person becase of their accent? Most of us will continually judge people we meet from their voice. Let's face it, if you heard David Beckhams's voice and didn't know that it was him you probably wouldn't conclude that he was a teacher or a Doctor would you? You wouldn't take a listen to Stephen Fry and think that he's a footballer.

When I was in Sri Lanka a while ago I had dinner with Java Jones. It was the first time we had met face to face. Whilst we were chatting he mentioned that he had expected me to be "more Sri Lankan" than I appeared. It was an interesting comment and when we discussed it further we figured that he had expected me to have a Sri Lankan accent, something I don't even borrow on Sundays. It was interesting how Mr Jones had built up an impression of me almost solely from reading my blog, how he had expected one accent and I had turned up with a different one, but also how we all make these assumptions. If I heard my own voice, with its dreary South London tones, then compared it with Java's sultry Sri Lankan lilt, I'd totally assume that he is Sri Lankan and I'm British. Technically true, yet I also consider myself as Sri Lankan.

But, I do find that my voice and accent changes a bit when I am talking to certain people in Sri Lanka, specifically people whose English isn't as good as others may be. The older I have got the less my voice shifts, a reflection of my inner confidence I think. But I still catch myself when talking to an old Aunt or someone and I notice that many words take on a "Singlish" sound to them.

I was discussing this accent thing with someone the other day and she said that she thinks the phenomenon is also a sign of adaptibilty, that people who shift their voice and accent in order to make themselves understood are simply attempting to blend in with their companions. This must be true too, we all crave acceptance by our peers although we have different ways of showing that craving.

The whole issue of people putting on "false" accents and returning to Sri Lanka after a couple of months in England with an accent like Vinnie Jones' one is just laughable for two reasons. First is the fact that it is clearly put on for effect. I can't understand why many people often hold Western culture with such high regard, perhaps it's largely because of the influence of TV and music and the MTV generation. But secondly it's the fact that these accents don't sound anywhere near genuine to a Londoner. If you think that Dick van Dyke's cockney accent was a good one then you may fall for the charms of a Colombo boy trying to sound all "gansgta" but that's about the only type of person you'll impress.

So, this is a big moment for me. For about the first time since I started to blog I have reached a conclusion in a post. Normally I start off with good intentions and then ramble to a point that is so far removed from the start that I finish in mid air. This time I have a conclusion of sorts, the first I have had since chemistry lessons at school.

It's this; the amount that a person changes their accent and voice in the company of others is a direct reflection of that person's self confidence. So the more you change the less self confidence you have. But, the important point is that it's self confidence in relation to the people we are interracting with, it's not absolute.

Agree?

You'd sleep with...

We were chatting in (the) office today about strategic issues, the impact of a possible interest rate rise on our cost base and Tony Blair's position on the EU issues. But, after a while we moved on to some serious topics, the type which every man will understand.

Who would you choose:

1. Beyonce or Shakira

2. Shakira or Fergie

3. Britney or Christina

4. Courtney or Jennifer

5. Dawn or Carly (from Eastenders)

6. Madonna or Catherine Zeta Jones

7. Angelina or Jen

8. Pamela or Uma

My answers are:

1. Shakira

2. Fergie

3. Britney

4. Jennifer

5. Carly

6. Madonna

7. Jen

8. Pamela.

Any thoughts?

PS - Sometimes doing research for a post is tough going.

Ugly People Shouldn't have Tattoos?

About a year ago I got one done. It's one that I reckon could be put in the "tasteful" class. A Polynesian pattern in a circle at the top of my left arm, at least that's how it was described in the book.

I'd wanted one for a while and was keen to get one that I wouldn't regret when I hit 35 or so! I was also keen that I didn't get something done that would show up whenever I walked out of the house, not some massive pattern in blue ink sliding down my arm and oozing onto my hand, nor a piece of body art that all can see whenever I wear anything that isn't a nun's habit.

Here in the UK I've noticed that everyone's got one done. If I were a tattooist I'd be pleased about this. I'm not, I'm a drummer so it doesn't really matter to me, particularly as I'm not a drummer who owns a tattoo parlour. But it does appear to be the latest thing, the height of being in vogue and what all the kids are doing. I'm not against that, fashion is good as far as I'm concerned. What I struggle with is the alarming thing I've observed lately, it's something that, were I Prime Minister, King or even vaguely important, I'd ban with immediate effect.

Yes, it's the sheer vast quantity of wholly untrendy people sporting tattoos. They've always been a bit "working class" here, going back many years. Those old sailors and tradesmen used to get them done, presumably because it was a bit of a macho and manly thing to do. Think of Popeye and that old plumber that your parents used to use. Or any builder, or Winston Churchill.

Many of these working class heroes got old, fat and unkempt. When I was a kid it was quite normal to see these older types sporting their faded tats as they did the shopping or waded into the beach at Brighton with a knotted handkerchief on top of their head. Middle class people just didn't have a tat, unles they were army officers or something.

Nowadays it's all changed. Tattoos have been made available for the masses. The average tattoo parlour is frequented by the same demographic mix that can be found at the local Gap. A crowd that wears khaki trousers with a pleated front, a blue and white stripey shirt and sports a small tattoo on its right shoulder.

Actually I can live comfortably with the tattooed Gap crowd, particularly as I'm a member of that club. The blue and white stripey shirt is actually one of my favourites. But it's the sight of these totally square, dowdy and frumpy looking people, dressed like my old school physics teacher (sorry Mr Duke) with a little tattoo on their upper arm. Or these ugly and old fashioned women with a tiny little devil tattoo on their ankle. I see them everywhere in London and even in other parts of the world. I think the American ones are the worst. Jen or Britney with a cute little ink pattern on their right breast is simply the stuff of one of my dreams, but not Roseanne Barr or one of those tourists wandering around Victoria looking for the Queen.

Women and men who look as if they're models for a page straight out of the Saga Holidays catalogue, the epitome of squarely dressed people, stroll around sunny streets showing off their body art. The clothes are more normal and conservative than the stuff the members of the local parish council wear to their monthly meetings. It's all Jesus boots, Fruit of the Loom T shirts and Marks & Spencer shorts, or maybe even the dreaded "slacks". The whole look is set off by a tattoo of a little devil on a fat ankle somewhere, or a heart on the right shoulder blade.
It's as if a single tattoo can make a totally untrendy person into an Angelina type without anything else, no makeover and no millions in the bank.

I went to see Muse (as you probably know) the other day and the sun was out and all were in T shirts and general summery clothes. And everyone wore their tattoos with pride. There were arms full of ink everywhere, there were wrists with those band things, shoulders with little red shapes and necks with names all around. It's interesting to look at and, in the setting of a stadium gig by arguably the UK's biggest rock band, T shirts and tattoos appeared the perfect dress code.

My attitude towards my own one is one of understatement. The view and attitude that it's a bit personal, something I didn't get done so much for others to see as for myself and that select band of people to view. I don't strut my stuff in a vest top and I don't go around shouting

"look at my whacky artwork"

It's nice that a few people see it occasionally, or if I go swimming or do naked rude things then it will get seen, maybe even admired. It's just not a huge big public statement of my "trendiness" that I want all to be aware of.

But, enough about uglies.

I also find that there's something just so sexy about a beautiful woman, dressed stylishly with a subtle tattoo in one of the right places, one of the "beauty spots". Actually, the more I dwell on it, the more I think that a beauty spot could be pretty much anywhere as long as the tattoo is subtle and the person looks good in other ways too.

And subtle for me is something indefinable. It's all about the whole picture, the sense of style about the person and how they carry themselves.

But the ultimate beauty spot has got to be that lower back area, just above the bum.Maybe it's a sort of pointer to forbidden fruit or a suggestion of things to come, maybe it's a kind of pure vanity on the part of the woman, that's it's done wholly for the pleasure of someone who is approaching from that angle.

They're usually in some kind of shape that "points" downwards towards the bum too. That's not fair is it? Show me a man who doesn't catch themselves staring at one of those "above the bum" tattoos when they see a beautiful woman bending down and getting something off the bottom shelf in a supermarket and I'll show you a weirdo or someone who never goes to a supermarket. We can't resist.

Simple pleasures!

Can Men Wear Sarongs In England?

If you're a regular around these parts you'll know that I sometimes take a peek at the statistics for this blog. You'll perhaps know that I get many hours of amusement from looking at the words people have searched for in order to arrive at my blog. Perhaps you'll also know that sarongs are, in my view, one of the best inventions of all time.

If I had been around in Edwardian times, or whenever it was that the wheel and the sarong were invented, and I had appeared on one of those technology shows in which "experts" have to judge new inventions and say "Hit" or "miss", and if the sarong came up against the wheel, I would have kicked the wheel off the programme and kept the sarong.

Of course kicking a wheel off a programme is a bit stupid, as I would have been better off just to have rolled it away, but I may not have been fully debriefed on how wheels work. Frankly though, I think sarongs are a much more useful invention. How stupid would the average Sri Lankan male feel and look if we woke in the night and had to rummage around the bed to try and find our wheel before we got up to pee? Or what if you saw one of those toddy tapping fellows climbing a tree with just a wheel wrapped around his arse? What if Barefoot sold a range of wheels designed by Barbara Sansoni in a range of colours and patterns?

No, it just wouldn't be the same. Some people (stupid ones) may say that cars wouldn't move as easily with sarongs wrapped around the end of their axles instead of wheels. They might say that machinery wouldn't run as efficiently if all the wheels were replaced with sarongs, that planes would look comical as they landed with fourteen different sarongs dangling from their undercarriage. They'd put up an argument that the average car would look laughable with a "steering sarong" instead of a steering wheel.

Well bollocks to those stupid people. They're just negative and unimaginative. I've got no time for them at all. They're the sort of people who think that pyjamas are good nightwear for men and that shops only need to have one person to facilitate a small transaction. Any Sri Lankan knows that pyjamas are fundamentally flawed and any good shop must have at least four members of staff to facilitate even the simplest of transactions. Such are the laws of nature.

Back to my title though. I was captivated by the fact that someone had arrived at my blog after searching for the phrase

"Can men wear sarongs in England"

I though I'd whack out a quick post to help you, whoever you are. The short answer is no.

Under normal circumstances.

Here are the accepted exceptions:

At night in bed, preferably if you're Sri Lankan or Asian
If your name is David Beckham
If you're an old Indian or Asian chap with no regard to the fact that people will laugh at you.
Going to a fancy dress party.
If you want to look like a pillock. See here for further information. (one of my absolute favourite websites)

I hope the information proves useful to you.

What makes a Sri Lankan Blogger?

In blogging terms I feel like a bit of an elder statesman these days. Not that I'm wise or have a readership of millions, or even hundreds to be honest, just that I've been doing these posts on and off for about fifteen months now. I have always fancied Hillary Clinton too, but I'll keep that to myself.

And fifteen months in the blogosphere, particularly the Sri Lankan blogosphere, feels like about ten years in the outside world. I'm one of those types who tries to look at most things as learning experiences, I do firmly believe that there are positives in everything we go through and those positives are the things we should actively seek out. A great big whopper of a positive, maybe even a double whopper with cheese, that I have got from blogging is that I think about things that I previously wouldn't have.

One of the biggest lessons I've learned from the whole blogging thing is that there are a million different types of people who write a blog, even amongst this relatively small Sri Lankan blogosphere. I was talking to a friend only today about the whole blogging phenomenon, I was talking to my academic brother the other day about it too. They have two quite different viewpoints, yet with similarities.

The thing I have come across a lot is so many people who view blogging as a sort of "saddo" activity, something that geeks do, as opposed to Greeks, fat ones with too much make up. I guess it's true that some geeks blog, but that doesn't mean that all bloggers are geeks. Those school Venn diagrams are useful at last! There's a common perception that us bloggers don't really have lives, we just write about them.

During my blog time I've met some people who I'd happily consider as great friends, who would hopefully think of me as a friend of sorts. I shan't give names as I don't want to embarass him, sorry them. In reality all these people are different with a vast array of personalities and characteristics. As the late Robert Palmer would have said there's every kind of people there. There are exceptions though.

I've noticed a distinct lack of bloggers who are wholly computer illiterate, there are only a few who don't own a computer and none at all who have no access to a computer whatsoever. Other than that we're all out there. There are young up and coming medical types who'll go on to run the world, at least the medical side of it. There are successful businesspeople, failing musicians, successful musicians and failed businesspeople. There are NGOs, MBEs, VSOs and UTIs. The more astute will know that a UTI is actually the acronym for a urinary tract infection, but I couldn't think of another three letter one for a type of person. I so nearly got away with it too.

But I wonder what the common characteristics are. What are those factors shared by the members of the Sri Lankan blogosphere?

Clearly nationality isn't one. There are people of all nations who I would consider to be part of the SL blogging community. But I wonder if you feel the same, perhaps you think that one must be Sri Lankan to be a Sri Lankan blogger. My view on it is that the SL bloggers share an interest in Sri Lanka, whether that is because of nationality or location or heritage it doesn't matter. To get listed on Kottu a blog must class as

"Being ‘Sri Lankan’, as in based in or covering Sri Lankan experiences".

There are some other technical things about feeding and the like but the main thing I assume is the Sri Lankan side.

To get on Achcharu there's actually a load of criteria but the one that I consider as relevant in this context is:

"You must either reside in Sri Lanka, be Sri Lankan or have some other means of connecting with Sri Lankan audiences - Very vague and ultimately not an important requirement but it's worth saying."

So it would appear that both Drac and Indi, the indisputed overlords of the SL blogosphere share the opinion that a Sri Lankan blog isn't strictly about nationality.

Age, race, religion and sexuality don't even enter the equation. But, I've observed an interesting thing here.

The SL blogosphere and its blogs is quite open about age, race and religion. Bloggers are happy to talk about their life and relate their age or say things that would give people an idea of their age. People like Indyana, Java and myself are quite happy to talk about the experiences we have had, of kids, marriage and other grown up stuff. One of my favourite posts of all time was the one when Java related his feelings and thoughts about the invention of the wheel and how it changed his life. Up until that point his car had always felt a bit bumpy, slow and crap round corners.

Other fellows happily talk and discuss their race or their religion without any attempt to keep them from public view. There are Tamils, Sinhalese, Christians and Buddhists and Muslims out there, most of whom are content to talk about the ethnic conflict in Sri Lanka or aspects of their faith.

But I have yet to read a Sri Lankan blog written by a gay person. Now, I realise that there may be many and I just don't know that the blogger is gay, I know that Sri Lanka has laws and attitudes about homosexuality that wouldn't exactly go down well in the Netherlands. That in itself may be a big reason why the average gay SL blogger doesn't want to write about it. And, also if you leave a comment on this post saying that "so and so, the blogger, is gay" I won't publish it. I really don't care and I don't want to out anyone. It just intrigues me that there aren't any SL bloggers who talk about their homeosexual lifestyle in the way I ramble on about drumming or Child of 25 chats about photography.

So age, race, religion and sexuality aren't common characteristics. I say that with the assumption that there are SL bloggers of all fifteen sexualities out there, even though I don't know for sure.

The only single characteristic I can see that we have in common is some sort of need for recognition. Perhaps we're all personality types who would class recognition high on our list of motivators. Perhaps we are attention seekers, more so than the average person. Do we all have a narcissistic side?

And is there a type of person who really does have a blog but who doesn't care at all about readership levels? I often say that I'm not bothered about my volume of readers, that I just do it for myself, but it defies logic and reason. If that were the case then surely I'd just write stuff and never publish it. If strikes me as an oxymoron. A blogger who has no regard for readership surely can't exist.

What thinkest du?

A Very Public Apology to Mr Java Jones of Colombo

I like to think of myself as a big man, in all but physical stature. I want to be recognised as a fellow who can acknowledge and learn from mistakes, who can take those things that others regret and use them as positive experiences to help and grow from.


Mistakes are good, fear is good and nerves are good. As long as we use them in positive ways.

Last week I published this post. In it I alluded to the fact that Java Jones, that Godfather of Sri Lankan bloggers, the man that taught me so much, including the difference between a low country and a Kandyan drum, may be partial to a bit of dodgy porn. I actually said:


"To think of those two having sex is a terrible, terrible vision. If there was a porno film showing it I don't think even someone like Java Jones would watch it. That's the only way I can attempt to portray their ugliness."


Pretty strong words huh? This week I must apologise profusely and genuinely for the hurtful words. With the benefit of hindsight I feel ashamed and disgusted with myself. Java is a Father figure to me, a fellow with the highest morals, who has only ever sent me the best quality pornographic emails. As he pointed out in his comment:


"Hey maan RD,I don be watchin no porn sheet maan. Yo be givin dese folk a wrong idea. My taste be in Fellini,Inarittu, Bergmann, Trufaut, Scorcese,Ozon, Spacey, Lubitsch, Welles and dem sort. So yo take dat back or I be gettin some fat broad dat smells of rotting fish to sort yo ass out."


He did forget to mention Fellatio and Beckham amongst his favourites but it's no big deal. I get the point. No man wants his taste in porn questioned, it's a matter of pride, man's pride, which is second only to women's pride.

So hear ye. In all the time I have known him Mr Java Jones of Colombo has only ever sent me the best quality porn, never anything dodgy featuring a fat Greek woman and a South Indian who smells of dead bodies.

His taste in porn is refined and elegant and his subtitles are never blurred. He is a gentleman of the highest order. As my Dad would say he's the sort of bloke who gets out of the shower to have a pee. They are about the same age too.

Now Java, will you call off that fish woman?

PS - The low country one is straight and cylindrical whereas the Kandyan has that taper to it, the bulge in the middle.

Sunday Morning, 8.30 AM

Here I am. Lying in bed, sarong floating somewhere around my bed, I know not where. It's a Barefoot sarong, which is the important thing, I wouldn't want you to think I was one of those fellows who wears a House of Fashion one or something even worse.

The old Sri Lankan blogosphere always takes on a slightly different air at weekends. I've noticed less activity in terms of frequent new posts but there's a different mix of people that do post. Natural I guess, the one who do all their posts while sitting at their desks are now busily having fun and way too tied up to blog.

Me? Well I'm excited, which is par for the course.

Why? Because in a few hours' time I'm off with the girls to see Muse at Wembley Stadium. The sun is out, a rarity here, the reviews for last night's gig say that it was spectacular and mindblowing and I can't wait. It's also the first proper gig that the girls have been to. They've seen me play a few times but this is a real band, one with albums, T shirts and DVDs and the like.

Not only that but they'll be supported by Biffy Clyro and My Chemical Romance, the perfect support bands for my 10, but almost 11, year old's emo tendencies. Apparently she's not actually an emo because "they slit their own wrists".

No, I haven't got the faintest either. The 13 year old is more cool, more sarcastic and more worldly wise. She spent half an hour yesterday trying to convince me that she could be a "goth" and that it was okay.

I don't actually know what the hell a goth is to be honest. I know they wear black and look like the Munsters, I know they all like Marilyn Manson and have white streaks in their hair, but that's the extent of my knowledge. Oh, and I know that no daughter of mine is going to be one, no way Jose. As I said to 13 year old:

"But you can't be a goth, you're a rock chick"

And I meant it.

Turns out she was having a laugh about the whole goth thing, no way would she be a goth and what exactly did I think she was like?

Ah well, I better get up, there's lots of showering to be done and Muse to go and see.

Now where exactly is that sarong?

Happy Sunday all.

It's Friday, I'm Excited About...

Before:












After:













The refurbishment at work is virtually finished. There's just a few minor touches to be added. We spent a lot of money on this and it was quite speculative. We (that's myself and my partners) knew that it needed doing, we knew that people would be positively affected by a much nicer and cleaner working environment. What we didn't know is how much of an effect it would have. It's not something that's measurable. We could never tell whether the money spent would give us a return, or if it would just be an expense with no profit.

We still don't know. What I do know is that everyone, including me, is much happier in the office. There's a feeling amongst the staff that we have visibly demonstrated we care for them by doing it. There's a huge amount more pride in the workplace. Everyone wants to keep things tidy and wants to keep it looking clean and neat. This man management thing is a tricky business isn't it?

With all things there's a balance to be struck between continual investment and spoiling people. Spoiling occurs frequently here, I often think we err on the side of treating people too well. The result is that, instead of being pleased to receive something, many are disappointed when they don't. The little extras become "givens" and are not appreciated, just missed if absent.

Currently all are happy with the refurb. Now we need to keep the enthusiasm that it has kicked off and build on it.

This Sunday sees me and the girls heading off to the new Wembley Stadium to see Muse live. They're the first live band to play there, although George Michael played a few days ago there. I think perhaps he doesn't count because he's crap or something.

The academic brother is coming too. The girls are excited as am I. I've wanted to see Muse live for a few years and this should be an occasion to remember. I'll keep you posted.

One thing that pisses me off about the nice weather we get here for a couple of hours every year; it's that fucking song "Boys of Summer" by Don Henley. What a load of shite. The only song on a par with it is "Summer of '69" and I believe it's illegal to not like that if you are under 35 and live in Sri Lanka.

Rant over. The rest of the stuff is all good and exciting. I've bought myself a little ticket to visit the motherland too. That's always enough to make a simple bloke like me highly excited.

Have fun all.

Psssst....keep this to yourself but...

I've got these two people who work for me who've been having an ongoing battle. First there's M. He's a 52 year old South Indian Tamil chap. He's as hardworking as an ox and as keen as mustard. He is honestly one of the best people I have here in terms of workload and eagerness to get on with things and do as much as possible. If there's extra work that needs doing he's always first in the queue. If I was the type of chap with occasional scant regard for employment law I'd get him to work 18 hours or even 20 a day. Of course I'm not like that though.

He has downsides though. He's not exactly a master of the English language and he's deaf as a post. This makes communicating with him a bit of a problem. He does speak English and understand it, the problem is that most things have to be said about 237 times before he hears the words, then they have to be repeated a few times whilst he gets to grips with the comprehension side of things. I think it would be a nice stroke of English understatement to describe a chat with M as interesting and challenging, a bit like a chat with my Dad actually. He's also got a way in which he winds people up the wrong way. I don't think he means it but it just happens. Partly to do with his lack of English and partly to do with his slightly antagonistic nature, it's a dangerous mix.

I'm not a necrophiliac or anything like that, I don't want to sound ambiguous here. In fact I've never had a desire to write with both hands anyway. But M has a peculiar smell to his persona too. And it's the smell of dead bodies, not that I have had significant experience of dead body odour. It's just that he has this sort of ghostly smell, like I would imagine you'd get from an old caretaker in an episode of Scooby Doo. The old caretaker who turns out to be the baddie, you know the story. M has that whiff and it kind of exists as a cloud that travels everywhere with him. I have a strong feeling that he may be a ghost, or a Scooby Doo character.

Then there's the other party in this. I'll call her A, because that's one of the letters in the alphabet. A is Greek, very large, with very bleached blonde hair. She has a pleasant demeanour and is quite religious. She wears far too much make up, has little sense of style about her and is one of those types who could benefit by going on one of those TV makeover programmes but wouldn't, because she thinks she's way too stylish. Frankly I find her as scary as fuck. If I met her in a dark alley, even though she knows me and works for me, I'd run. I'd run as fast and as far as my little Sri Lankan drummer's legs could carry me. Then I'd shit myself.

She's a genuinely kind person too. Last year she went to Lourdes and brought me back a bottle of holy water. It's one of the most tacky looking things I have ever seen, a dodgy plastic bottle painted badly by hand in a blue crayon looking effort. But the thought was nice and I appreciated it. Frankly I hadn't even realised beforehand that she was remotely interested in cricket.

A is also a good worker, but with a slightly lazy attitude. She has made a bit of a niche for herself in that she takes care of one of our sorting frames (we process mail). Her frame is a bit like her living room, not that I have any intention of ever seeing her living room. There are pictures up in this work area, it's all quite homely and welcoming. I have been surprised that she doesn't have a real fire burning in the corner there during the winter months. But I've tolerated the behaviour as I think that people who assume ownership of a role are often ones who take that role seriously and do their job with pride, which she does. So it's a bit of a win win, just with some losses on both sides.

For several months this feud has been simmering. M, our South Indian smelling of dead bodies chap and A, our big fat Greek scary woman, have been on the verge of a big fight. There's been a few shouting matches, not helped by M's deafness, A's Greekness and their fiery tempers. Things appeared to calm down some weeks ago as they came to a ceasefire agreement. I'm not sure how familiar you are with these ceasfire agreements but, in my opinion, they are about as strong as one of those stripey blue and white carrier bags, the ones that split at soon as they are touched. Just waiting to be broken.

Broke it did. Last week I got a text message (an SMS to you lot) from one of my partners to say that it had all kicked off in the warehouse between the two of them. They were both there working the evening shift and something had taken place. It was Friday night, I was happy to sit back, wait for the sparks on Monday, which may have just dissipated into the night over the weekend. I'm not sure if sparks do dissipate but you get my drift.

Well they didn't. On Monday morning M came to me to complain about A. All sorts of accusations were flying around my office. I felt like one of those chaps who has to keep ducking and moving his head out of the way as he tries desperately to avoid some bees that have been attacked by a lizard and are on the warpath. I listened to M, there's little point in saying stuff to him as the deafness and comprehension issues are always present. I let him sound off and get things out of his system. Then I told him I'd speak to the Greek woman before I made a decision on what to do next. He wanted her sacked because of all her "unreasonable" behaviour. He hadn't mentioned his alleged threat to kill her, which I had been told about. Fun and games.

Then, on Monday evening, I was sitting quietly in my newly decorated and refurbished office and A came up the stairs and headed in my direction. When a large mammal like that charges I know exactly what to do. I sat totally still, I didn't even move my eyes, I could hardly feel myself breathing as I waited for her to retreat. Had she been an elephant my plan would have worked, but she's a fat Greek woman with decent eyeseight so she saw me and headed for me.

"Mr Rhythmic I don't know what to do" she said.

There was a hint of tears in those big, overly made up with that blue stuff that women use on their eyes that looks like crayon, eyes. I'm not good with women who cry, or men for that matter. I think crying is an evil invention, made to stop a fellow in his tracks and to feel sympathy. If you're a woman reading this and you want to get something from me then just turn up at my doorstep whilst crying. That'll do the trick. If you're the sarongtroubleshooter woman just turn up, there's no need for tears.

She told me her "story" how M had threatened to kill her, how they used to be friendly but she "doesn't know what happened but it all changed", how she is at her wit's end and how she wants him to be fired. I had a very brief thought that perhaps they had had a fling and things hadn't worked out, causing bad feeling and death threats. These brief thoughts are a nightmare aren't they? To think of those two having sex is a terrible, terrible vision. If there was a porno film showing it I don't think even someone like Java Jones would watch it. That's the only way I can attempt to portray their ugliness.

I tried to put the thought away, to park it and move on. I knew that it would haunt me, and I was right.

I continued to listen to A's story. I made a point of not letting her sit down on the chair in my office. It had some stuff on it which I consciously left there to keep her standing up. I figured that it would prevent the thing taking too long and she could do with the exercise. I'm kind like that.

So, having heard her out, resisted her crying and not being moved by her pleas for M's dismissal and having heard out M and resisted his pleas for A's dismissal, I pondered and tried to figure out a course of action. I wasn't going to fire either of them, they're both good workers, I need them and they have employment rights. The UK has some good things, like peace, Ed's Diner, Apple stores and smooth roads. Employment rights are not one of them though.

I had a flash of inspiration and remembered that story from that book, The Bible. It was that story about a King or a wise man, not one of those three wise men, but a different one. There was a baby in this story and 2 possible mothers. My memory goes quite hazy at that point but I recollected something about said wise chap threatening to chop the child in half to see if one of the mothers would back down, thereby giving a clue that she was the real one.

But, I wasn't sure if A actually had any kids, nor was I sure on the whole "threatening to chop a child in half" thing. The threat may not have worked, then I would have had to do it. There was only one mother involved here too, and I wasn't sure on that. So I thought laterally. I decided to get them together, leave them in the new posh meeting room and tell them that they are both adults and need to sort things out. I would refuse to be a middle man and go up to my office leaving them to fight, argue, kill or just possibly find a solution. Either way I'd tell the fuckers that they couldn't come out of the room until they had sorted things.

I also decided that I wouldn't tell them about my plan until getting them together, it would give them minimal opportunity to prepare a defence as such. Tuesday evening came and I grabbed them, put them in the meeting room and sat down with them. I told them that we needed to sort this out, no one would be fired but that we had to work together and behave like adults. Every time I stopped to breathe on of them would interrupt me and try to say something, to get a point across. I wasn't having any of it. I told them that I wasn't a teacher in a school acting as the middle man and that they needed to talk to each other. I didn't expect them to become best friends but that I knew they'd sort it out. Then I left, telling them I'd check back in 10 minutes.

About 10 minutes later I returned to them, half expecting to find M's body lying on the meeting room floor. As I walked into the room I smelt dead bodies, a good sign as it made me realise he was very much alive. They were arguing, it looked a bit hostile and clearly hadn't been sorted but I told them I'd return in a while. About half an hour later I returned again. Peace had been declared. I didn't ask for the details, I didn't care actually. I was just pleased that the plan had worked.

Things are happy on the warehouse floor now. They may well have decided that they both hate me, that I am the cause of their problems, but that's ok, I'll live with that.

As Mr T would say; I love it when a plan comes together.

Chocolate Biscuit Pudding and Fornication

After my brief foray into writing about important things I'm moving back to the trivial stuff you expect from me. Politics is fascinating and interesting but I think I'm better to leave it to the experts like Voice in Colombo. Until next time of course.

These serious issues aren't for me, in recent days I've felt like a rabbit in the headlights as I've been accused of all sorts of things, most of which are true. And, did you know this? I had to look up the word "foray" in the dictionary as I wasn't sure if if had one or two "R's". There isn't actually a single word in the dictionary that starts with the letters "forr", except "Forrest" but that's the name of the first premier of Western Australia, which doesn't count. I was slightly amazed by this.

And, whilst I'm on the subject of words beginning with "for", did you know that "fornication" is defined as "voluntary sexual intercourse outside marriage"? I had always thought it was just a term for sex. I live and learn.

Lady Luck, in her usual eloquent and witty manner, wrote a little post here about the perils and problems, the lack of imagination in the average South Asian dessert. Now I'm not a chap with a big sweet tooth and as one of my best friends always says

"a pudding is just a waste of stomach space"

Give me a plate of rice and curry or a good old full English any day over a tub of Haagen Daaz and some chocolate sauce, although the belgian chocolate flavour stuff is pretty fine. But I can still appreciate a nice British trifle or a good light French Chocolate Mousse, and fine French tarts are a particular favourite of mine. It's the accent I think.

Most European desserts are far less rich and less sweet than their Asian counterparts. A trifle served in England will certainly have about half the sugar content of a Sri Lankan one, only Sri Lankan hotels make a feature of a dessert section in their restaurant in which there is that vast array of multi coloured bouncy blancmange type of puddings which no one can identify. It's not important as they all taste the same, of sugar and fruit, or fruits.

There is one Sri Lankan dessert that takes the biscuit, a bit too literally.

That old Sri Lankan favourite.

Chocolate biscuit pudding.

What's the fuck is it all about? I don't mind the odd mouthful of the stuff but, unless you have some kind of deathwish, it doesn't make sense.

Chocolate biscuits are good, we all know that. I have heard stories of people who can only eat one chocolate biscuit at a time, unverified though. I would even go so far as saying that a dessert can be good, as I mentioned above. But, turning a packet of chocolate biscuits into a pudding just goes against the grain doesn't it?

I have a friend in Sri Lanka who can't cook anything, in all the years I have known him I have never witnessed him cook. Now I'm no expert myself but I can knock up a tin of baked beans or a fry up if pushed. But this chap proudly boasts that he can make a good chocolate biscuit pudding and people gaze at him with a sense of admiration. They look at him as if nothing else matters but his ability to knock up a respectable CBP.

Chocolate biscuit pudding is a sticky concoction that consists of chocolate biscuits (unsurprisingly), cream, sugar, anything sweet that can be found in the average Sri Lankan kitchen and then lots more sugar. The more refined palette can add some nuts to taste. There's probably some condensed milk chucked in for good measure too.

It exists because it can, a bit like one of those celebrities who are famous for being famous. Like that Hilton woman. It's the Michael Jackson of desserts isn't it. It's got mostly decent raw materials, talent and some qualities, but it's been mixed up together and made into the one of the most sickly things known to man, or child. Yet many people like it.

How on Earth did someone invent it and why?

These things puzzle me.

What Do You Think Then?

Let's see if we can be a bit mature about this shall we?

I ask because I am genuinely interested, not because I want to start some kind of name calling competition.

So the Government of Sri Lanka has issued an apology for the eviction of the 376 Tamils from Colombo last week. There were blog posts all over the Sri Lankan blogosphere talking about it, including mine here.

Java made probably the most mature post I read here.

Voice in Colombo was his usual vociferous self about it here. Personally I disagree with most of his points, but differing opinions are interesting and stimulating.

The one thing that struck me about the whole episode, and the criticism of it, was that many took the approach that one could only be patriotic by backing the GOSL, that there is a war going on and all is fair in love and war. There was an air, from some not all, that any negative opinion of the actions of the GOSL was an act of disloyalty, that it made you "un Sri Lankan".

So what I'd like to know is what people feel about the apology. If you were a person who expressed support for the evictions and felt that it was unpatriotic to criticise the actions of the GOSL do you now feel that you should back the apology?

If you don't agree with the apology then does that make you unpatriotic?

What do you reckon?

Boys, Girls and Instruction Manuals

The temporary office i'm in has a real window, a luxury for me. Instead of the window I'm used to which merely overlooks some women, now I've got one that looks over a car park, with forty foot lorries loading and unloading at regular intervals. There are forklift trucks doing their thing and activity of all kinds is continually going on.

There are certain boyish things that still capture me, as if were a youngster playing with my toy cars and planes and things. Aiports and planes are a constant source of fascination. My office is about five minutes from Heathrow, I spend far more time than the average person does collecting and dropping people at the airport. Yet I still love the airport. It's got an atmosphere and a feel, a buzz to it, as do all airports for me. There's something about the smell of aircraft fuel, the constant feeling of movement and the pure excitement of seeing the aircraft take off and land that never ceases to impress me.

Cars are one of my loves. I still get that butterfly feeling when I see a Ferrari Dino or hear the unique twin carbed sound of the engine in an old MGB as it trundles past me. I can recognise the tones of an old VW Beetle engine from about four miles and a glance at an Aston Martin Vantage, even though they are an essential accessory for most professional footballers here, can get me just that little bit horny, well a bit more actually.

Ships, now there's another interesting one. I think it's something about the size of them that I marvel at. The way in which these massive iron monstrosities (or whatever they're made of) are little cities in their own right. Is it only me who's constantly in awe at the way in which the containers are managed, how they are stacked and loaded and how they're moved around as if they're tiny little boxes made from cardboard. Whenever I see a forty foot container lorry I look at its size, think that it's a pretty large vehicle, then realize it's tiny in comparision to an ocean going freighter with hundreds of these containers stacked on board.

Instructions manuals are the one men's dilemna I do have though. I'm never sure what the norm is for us men. Are we the ones who are supposed to read them or are we the ones who are supposed to ignore them, only to glance through them at the very last minute, when we have tried all and are just about to give up?

My approach on the instruction manual issue is to generally read the little things before I approach the new item. Of course I don't read all the girl's stuff like where the batteries go and how to operate the power button, but I read the "how to set up and use the new universal remote control" bit before steaming ahead with useage. I wouldn't dream of reading the manual from cover to cover, of digesting every word, but I'll glance through it to get the basics sorted. But what exactly is the trend here? Do most men do this or is it the fairer and lovelier sex ( that's women to you, Java) who read manuals?

But instruction manuals, planes, trains and automobiles are all well and good. Airports, cranes and constructions sites may well be measurements of a man. Whether you read instructions or not just might give some indication. Shaving, periods, childbirth and farting might just be crucial differences between the sexes.

Ultimately there's only one foolproof way, one accurate gauge for differentiating the sexes. It's the only surefire way to tell the men from the women. I've studied it for a few years and concluded that it's true the world over, with a possible exception being Chatham in Kent.

Yes people, it's how you throw a ball. Simple, but true. Women throw like girls, men throw like boys. If you have the action of some kind of demented shotputter, where there is no backswing involved, a little grunt and a tiny distance cleared, then you're a girl. If you casually throw a cricket or tennis ball with the action of Andy Roddick serving an ace then you're a boy, complete with backspin, distance and nonchalence.

You may or may not have a willy, you may or may not be able to give birth. These things are mere details, just minor technicalities.

How you throw is the real measurement.

WRONG, WRONG, WRONG.

It's ethnic cleansing, it's barbaric, it's simple.

When I started blogging I had no intention of ever posting about the Sri Lankan political situation.

This is terrible though. Whether it's 376 people or not, whatever is going on in the Country, this is simply a gross violation of Human rights.

Comment, post, blog, talk, just voice your opinion about it.

Please.

Never too old to Fart

I may be slightly over my teen years, I may have kids that are actually in their teens, I may be a highly regarded captain of industry and a world renowned drummer. I may be all of these things, in my own mind at least, but I'm childish enough to enjoy a good farting situation when I see one.

I was strolling round our office with Ken, one of my partners. We were checking off things that had been done in the ofice refurbishment, making sure that everything on the list had been completed to our satisfaction. Were the doors painted, were the walls moved slightly to the left, that sort of thing.

There we were, just the two of us in the new canteen / kitchen area that we've had done at considerable expense for all to enjoy. We were having a laugh and, as blokes are prone to do, I farted, a good quality loud one, one of those boastful ones that all men like to do and all women pretend to be disgusted about but then practice at home when no one's around.

Ken made the usual men's fake being disgusted sounds and we continued with our checklist. Minutes later we were both suprised by the smell, this had been an unexpectedly smelly one. He did the "uuurghh that's fucking disgusting" thing and I wallowed in both the smell and my achievement.

Just at that point one of the guys doing the building work strolled into the kitchen, Steve the electrician. He's a nice chap is Steve and, over the past few weeks, we've got to know him and his colleagues quite well. He walked in and smelt the odour.

Ken looked at me, I looked at Ken, Steve looked at both of us. There was only one thing I could do, one honourable path to take. So I stepped up, never one to shirk my responsibilities, always one to own up to my shortcomings. I swallowed my pride and behaved like a man:

"Urgh Ken you dirty bastard, did you drop one?" I asked.

"No it was you, you wanker." came the reply.

It was too late. Steve just knew it was Ken, from the embarassed look on his face and the way he denied it immediately. I just went with it. I could only look on with pleasure and satisfaction as Steve blamed Ken for the smell, his fervent denials merely made him appear even more guilty.

We may not have breasts but sometimes it's good to be a man, it's good to fart and it's even better to blame your mate.

We need them...I just wouldn't want to be one.

Accountants.

A crucial element to success in modern day business. They record things, they take a snapshot view of things as they are now and have been in the past. Figures are compiled, overheads are measured and costed, revenue is added up, (although no accountant can ever do mental arithmetic) and profit or loss is declared.

Then these chaps tell us about all the problems we will face if everything that could possibly go wrong actually does go wrong. I wonder about this whole accountant / finance person phenomenon. Us businesspeople need them, we need measurements and benchmarks, we need to know how we're doing on an ongoing basis. Most people involved in business are quite driven, we want to succeed, we want to make money and we want to develop and grow our little seedlings of Companies.

Therefore we must have people to tell us how we're doing. If we don't know where we are then we can't know how to get to our destination, or something deep like that.
But I also get totally fucked off with my finance director sometimes, who's also one of my partners. He'll present the monthly management accounts and accompany it with a list of potential problems. Along the lines of:

"If we don't have any revenue next month we'll make a big loss"

or "We need to reduce our overheads to make more money".

All valid and true statements, yet all totally obvious to the most stupid of people. Even some of the people on "The Apprentice" would grasp these basics. My eleven year old daughter knows this stuff. Mind you she does know most things, such is the power of the internet mixed with attitude.

For me though it comes back to that old statement, that adage that you see on posters in offices like mine:

"Don't come to me with problems, come to me with solutions".

I want to be one of the creative ones, the type who thinks of things, who deals with stuff and moves on. I really don't want to dwell on what might go wrong, what did go wrong and what will go wrong if everything else goes wrong. There's a balance too though. It's vitally important to look at previous experiences in order to learn from them, to learn good and bad things. How to do things in the future and how not to do things.

But, if you ever catch me criticising things to the nth degree and moaning about stuff, give me a good slap will you.

Ta.

What's Occurring in These Parts

Well the gigs last Friday and Saturday were both spiffingly excellent. Friday's Mimosa outing was the highlight. We played as if our lives depended on it, we grooved like the bunch of groovy mothers we can be and the whole club was dancing to our tunes and screaming for more.

It was the most exciting gig I've played so far, I've started a separate post on it, I may just finish that and put it up sometime. The gig was recorded and I'm excited about getting the recording, which should be sometime this week. If anyone wants a copy let me know and I'll figure out a way of getting it to you. Of course you may have to sleep with me though.

The covers band gig, my first one with them, was also good. I played well, the band played well and all was received with enthusiasm and vigour. It feels a bit flat in comparison to Friday night, on reflection it's because it's relatively easy to go out and play "I Predict a Riot" and the like to some pissed up 40 somethings and to get a good reaction. Still enjoyable, still a buzz, just not as satisfying as playing originals and getting the same reaction. Big fish, small pond, large mushy peas, you know the metaphors.

The refurbishment at work is progressing nicely. I'm not happy with the carpet though. This is a bit of a bummer as I chose it. Fuck!

In a weak moment about a month ago I started smoking again, almost three years since I stopped. When I stopped previously I had done it by going on one of those Allen Carr clinics. I can't recommend them highly enough. Even when I started again I never felt as if I had failed, just that I had succeeded for a good few years and that I wanted to stop again. So I did. I smoked myself silly for a number of weeks, booked myself back on an Allen Carr clinic, went along, sat there for five hours and stopped. It cost me about £200, money that I would have spent on cigarettes in a matter of months. Bargain. The best thing about it is that I left the clinic and got on with life, no pangs, no being on the verge of a nervous breakdown, no feeling as if I'm missing out on anything.

I've added a new link in the list of blogs I read. Check it out. It's called Outstation Life. It's about Outstation Life. She's a friend of Jules. She's interesting.

And that's about all I can reveal to you now.

Oh yes, I'm trying to learn to cook. It's slow and steady, quite hard to do too.

And I got my Muse tickets the other day. Weekend after next will see me and the girls in the new Wembley stadium rocking along to Bliss and Starlight.

Excited about life.

Yessirreee!!!!

Not Too Bad - Not Sri Lankan then!

I've blogged about this before, but it's sooo been getting on my nerves in recent months. It's the answer to the "How are you?" question, the answer that goes:

"I'm not too bad"

I think it's a common response in England, or the UK, to being asked how we are. I really can't imagine that there are many simple statements that actually portray more of a negative feeling than this one. As the song goes, please don't let me be misunderstood. I wouldn't want you to think I'm some kind of white toothed, grinning infectiously and motivating everyone type of chap, or worse still, an American. But it's such a negative statement, it's as if the utterrer of the words normally lives a crap life but, on this rare occasion, their life is just about bearable. Normally on a different day they would be on the verge of suicide but today, things are just that little bit better.

Why so negative? Why so despondent? Or is it just a stock answer to a stock question, neither of which requires any semblance of thought to be said, or asked.

Whenever I ask someone how they are I actually mean it I'd rather get a genuine response, one that tells me about the chap's latest woes and how the boil on his right arse cheek still hasn't cleared up, or even better, I like to hear that life is pretty peachy, that things are great because his business is doing particularly well or his cat has just won the lottery. In return, when a fellow asks me how I am I invariably say that I'm good, that things are bright and positive. Or, on a bad day I might actually say that I'm feeling a bit down, that I'm a bit tired or whatever the truth is. I figure that most people would prefer to hear that kind of truthfulness than "not bad thanks, how are you?"

But tell me please. Is it the English or is it just people in general?

I sometimes feel so weighed down when people sigh about their life, they are oh so busy, oh so tired, oh so carrying the weight of the world on their shoulders. And it seems to be here, in the UK. When I meet people in Sri Lanka, or in many other parts of the world, they just don't have that air of doom about them.

Is it my imagination? Or do Sri Lankans say this "not too bad" thing too?

HI !!

In between Christmas and the New Year a copy of Hi!! Magazine arrived on my desk addressed to me. This caused confusion and bewilderment, rather like the ending of a new song we're doing in Mimosa.

It was addressed to me personally at my work address and I hadn't been expecting it. But I had a faint shimmer of a thought lurking in the deepest recesses of my mind. One of those thoughts that goes like this:

"Ah, I think I may have bought myself a subscription to this a while ago, it does sound familiar actually, ah yeah shit I did do it."

So I read it. Then I gave it to my Mum and Dad so they could pick out their friends and relatives in it.

Sometime in March the next issue arrived. After several read throughs I felt disappointment and dismay. There was not a single mention, not even a double page spread, of my week in Sri Lanka. There were however, plenty of the usual friends and relatives featured in their prominence there. Photos of people at parties, openings and lunches, festivals and weddings. People who were mostly pretending they didn't want to be featured in there, but still made sure their best side was showing.

Now this HI!! magazine phenomenon amazes, intrigues and puzzles me in a way that it shouldn't. The amount of time I spend thinking on it is not warranted, it's just a magazine after all. It's the apparent contrast between what people say about it (in Sri Lanka) and what they actually think of it that makes me ponder.

I believe it was Oscar Goldman who once said something about it being a bore to be invited but even worse not to be (massive prizes available here for anyone who knows who Oscar Goldman was, without the aid of a search engine). That's it with HI!! too.

I've seen so many who moan about it, rant about it and mock the people who are in it, then pore through its pages looking for a picture of themselves. I find it fun, to look through its glossy, badly taken on someone's compact camera because there was no one around with a decent camera pictures.

Peering at pictures of some distant cousin's wedding to see if there's a picture of my Mum and Dad there, scrutinising the photos taken at the launch of a car that only Sri Lankan cricketers and sons of MPs will be able to buy. Of course half the population of Sri Lanka is the son of an MP so it's a lucrative market anyway.

There's usually some double page spread of a fancy dress party at one of the usual haunts. If I were a god I'd like to be the god of fancy dress. I'd make a law, or whatever it is that gods make, and it would dictate that people can only appear in fancy dress that matches their skin colour. Us brown skinned darkies really shouldn't go to a fancy dress party dressed as Marilyn Monroe or the blonde haired bloke from The Dukes Of Hazzard. It doesn't work, we just look scary.

The best thing about HI!! mag?? It's ever so slightly similar to another well known magazine with a similar name. I can't quite remember the name but it'll come to me.

I'm off now to do some gigs this weekend. The sun is out, the sky is blue, I'm sure I'll forget a chorus or two!

If you are the editor of HI!! I am still available for that "At home with Rhythmic Diaspora" double page spread that you're thinking about too.

Oh wow, oh wow, oh wow!!!

I'm don't know if it comes across in this blog but I'm a very childlike and simple sort of bloke. I get excited by small things and struggle with deep stuff like the meaning of life and cooking. Having said that I am learning lots about the meaning of life at the moment. Not cooking though.

But, at a time in my own life when some very big and exciting things are going on, I have just experienced a moment of excitement, a bit of pure joy that will take some beating even by my own high standards, for years to come.

Let me explain; I was in Tesco a short while ago, buying my lunch, the usual healthy option of Ginsters chicken and mushroom slice with some microwaveable rice. As I passed through the fruit section I glanced sideways at the "exotic fruit" bit. I did a second take, something that I'm very used to, being a drummer. Then, on even more familiar ground, I did a third take. Yes, I wasn't dreaming, or no I wasn't dreaming I should say. They had Rambutans there. Packs of four.

My favourite fruit of all time, the fruit that I would happily foresake all other fruits for, the fruit that I can never find here in the UK apart from that one time I saw it at Tesco a few year ago. They stared at me, the little red juicy beauties were calling my name out

"Rhythmic, rhythmic, come and buy us, all of us.....please" I heard them say in high pitched tones. I had some thoughts. If I didn't buy them there was every chance that some sudda would buy them and eat them without understanding their special taste and flavour. The sudda would casually think that they were nice but not as nice as Lychee and then eat his Mars Bar.

So I did the only thing that a man could do. I bought them all. There were only twelve of them, in packs of four for £1.49 for each pack. So I paid £7.47 for twelve Rambutans or 62p each. Or, just to make me feel really bad I paid about 132 Sri Lanka Rupees per Rambutan.

You know what?

I'd pay double that, they're lovely!

Child Of A Sri Lankan Doctor?

I read this post by Sach and discovered that she is the daughter of a Doctor. I did the clever mental processing required and figured that the medical parent is probably Sri Lankan. Like I am prone to do about wholly irrelevant things I pondered for a while. Not for that long, just long enough to think that I could write a post about the subject.

I realised that I know quite a few people who are the offspring of Sri Lankan Doctors, myself included. Both my brothers are too, these sort of coincidences always intrigue me. But are you a Sri Lankan Dr's child (SLDC)?

If the answer is a resounding "yes" I wonder whether you grew up in an environment of "overcare" or "undercare". I know of some SLDCs who get little attention from their medical parent, on the medical side that is. They may be suffering from a seemingly chronic illness and Dr Dad will, after months of ignoring the symptons, take a cursory look and then announce that there's nothing wrong with them or it's all their own fault anyway for wearing the wrong colour trousers, or trouser, as any Sri Lankan would say. If the SLDC went to their GP they would immediately be put on a dose of antibiotics and given all kinds of treatment, but the illness would clear up pretty damn quickly. Perhaps these Doctors get so used to dealing with and seeing sick people every day that they need some at home too, just to feel comfortable.

On the other side there are those Doctors who go for the overcare approach. This is what I grew up with and still face. I live in a state of constant fear. Fear of coughing in front of my Mother, or of expressing any sort of physical discomfort. Or mental discomfort for that matter, but that's another issue.

A faint sneeze in front of my Mum can easily result in several specialists being telephoned, favours called in and local hospitals put on one of those alerts that only actually happen in plane crash films. Of course this stuff has advantages, massive ones. I have learnt to control my sneezes over the years and can now squeeze one out with all the volume of a Englishman complaining about poor service in a restaurant. And I don't need to go to the Doctor's very often, unless Liverpool are playing of course. My Mum would be hard pushed if one of us were taking ill during a Liverpool game. After some thought she would do the right thing and put her loyalty and sense of duty ahead of life's less important things. Then, at half time, she'd take a look at the ill son in the corner of the room.

These Sri Lankan Doctors are an abundant resource aren't they? I was travelling to the motherland last year with my brother and there was an announcement over the plane's PA asking if there was a Doctor on board. There were scrums and fights as most of the passengers went forward and volunteered for the task of saving the poor suffering passenger's life.

My brother, a fit bloke, won many of the fights and stepped up to save the fellow. At this point he faltered. He is indeed a Doctor, but of something other than medicine. Something like Geography or an ology. He stared at the patient for a while, then started to write a paper on the impact on the aircraft's aerodynamics of his choice of brown trousers with a green flowery batik shirt. This didn't help the poor bloke, who couldn't breathe, so one of the other 378 Sri Lankan Doctors stepped up and did that resucitation thing. All was okay. Except the fact that the green flowery batik shirt survived.

Sri Lanka has the highest ratio of Doctors in the general population out of any country in the world. The latest reported statistics claim that for every 100 Sri Lankans there are at least 95 Doctors. Only India can come close to this remarkable statistic with a figure of 92.7 per 100 people in its population.

But how about you? Any medical parents? Or are you the child of a Doctor and have also chosen medicine as your career? Are you a lucky lady who has two medical parents?

Gigs, Bands, Days.

I feel like a real musician this week. I've got a band practice tonight with Mimosa, then we've got a gig on Friday night. Then, on Saturday night, I've got my first gig with the new covers band. It's all go around here!

It's the first time that I've ever had two consecutive gigs in two days and it's something that fills me with excitement. I've never been one of those angsty musicians who throws up backstage seconds before running on and giving the performance of their life. My pre gig thing is more about doing as much practice as I can in the weeks leading up to the event and then, come the day, I feel quite relaxed and can't wait to get on with things.

I've never felt as if I've actually done enough practice, there's always the feeling that I could have learnt that song a bit better, that I could have really nailed that particular fill more or that I should have spent that extra five minutes doing paradiddles instead of scratching my arse. But I've also always had good gigs, never perfect but always good.

I know there are a few musicians who read this and I'm sure they'll agree that playing live is an unbeatable feeling, the adrenalin rush and pure excitement is the epitome of pure passion and raw energy. It often doesn't matter whether you're playing to an audience of two or two thousand, the act of playing is all that matters.

So, if you're around the Ascot way on Friday and you like a good funk, then come and see Mimosa. Leave a comment, drop me an email or whatever and I'll let you know where it is. Well, it's at a place called Jagz in Ascot actually.

But I hope we get more than two people.

Painfully Beautiful

I was out for dinner with a friend the other night. We were sat there talking about women and song, the normal kind of topics that two fellows like us talk about. It was a nice restaurant but the sort where the tables are a bit too close together for comfort, rather like the seats on a Sri Lankan Airlines plane. One of those places that most people wouldn't choose for a date or a romantic meal, as all close by would hear the sweet nothings being whispered into ears and other orifices.

This didn't stop the couple who were placed near us. They sat there and me and my mate couldn't help but do a tad of eavesdropping on their conversation. The guy was an average looking specimen but the woman exuded an air of sexiness, of poise and confidence. She was a bit special, he wasn't. As often happens in life, but perhaps he was hung like a horse, or an animal of similar proportions.

As a couple though they looked good together. They clearly weren't on a first date, or a second or a third for that matter. I'm not sure if they were married but they had the feel of a couple who had been together for about ten happy years. Familiarity with fun and laughter and total relaxation in each other's company. As they conversed and had some fun the chap said something to his partner that had a great effect on her. It was a word combination that described the way she looked brilliantly, but also had an effect on her. He merely said:

"You look painfully beautiful tonight".

And actually he was right. Me and P, my friend looked at her and talked about this afterwards. It was a perfect choice of words to describe the way she looked. Very beautiful, very sexy, very sultry and all in a way that most fellows would have found to be painful. Of course I mean nice pain, not that kind that happens when you staple your tongue to a wall or something.

We left them to continue with romancing and we carried on talking about whether Mitch Mitchell, Jimi Hendrix's drummer, was overrated or not.

Bags, Bags, Bags!!

In the last couple of weeks I have become the proud owner of three, yes three new bags. I'm not talking about Tesco carrier bags here, I'm referring to quality ones, the proper stuff, the real McCoy. I've never been a bag type of bloke in the past. I've made do with suitcases bought for fuck all from the Pettah, I've carried around the dodgiest of fake designer label rucksacks bought from House of Fashion (real Diessel you know) and I've ventured into manbag territory but only really dipped a toe in the water. Toe dipping's all well and good but sometimes you have to hold your breath and dive into the water don't you?

The first of this trio was my new "Crumpler" rucksack thing. I bought this lovely MacBook, from which I type now, and realised that I needed a good quality backpack effort to take on any trips. One which would hold my camera, my new MacBook, iPod, about 9 drum magazines (essential for the average drummer on a long haul flight) and a pen. These are more or less the essential items for a long haul journey, in my case most of these journeys are to Sri Lanka, hence the requirement for pen space; I need a pen to fill out the immigration form thing that gets handed out just before the meal is served and I have now got so sad that I can think about these things when choosing a bag. The carefree days of wind in the hair, devil may care attitude and excuse me can I borrow a pen are long gone, replaced by a man of responsibility and respect, a fellow who carries a pen with him, albeit one of those cheap transparent disposable ones.

This rucksack is a piece of design in itself. It's the sort of bag that unscrupulous fellows would nick even if there was nothing inside it, just to get the bag. So I'll probably get a cheap Tesco carrier bag or similar to carry it around in. It's got all sorts of compartments, a special filling on the bit that goes against your back to make it feel comfortable, a compartment for the MacBook, with it's own "sock" thing to put the MacBook in. You can probably even put a PC laptop in this although I wouldn't recommend such a crime against fashion.

It's also got a rather fetching and distinctive lime green and black colour scheme, it doesn't even look gay. All I need now is somewhere to go, avec Macbook, and I'll be sorted.

After all my fears and trepidations over the whole manbag issue I'm now a bit of a manbag convert. I can carry one comfortably, feeling at ease with myself and I don't worry about being mistaken for a Frenchman or one of those Italians from Italy. Frankly they're bloody practical these manbags, us blokes can carry a magazine or two, a wallet, some keys and all manner of other things and we don't have to worry about bulging pockets or losing things. Unless we lose the manbag of course. I've rapidly advanced to the level at which I look at "nice" manbags in shops. I look at them and wonder whether that one will suit me, whether the brown will look better or if the black one will bring out my youthful good looks.

So there I was the other day. A normal day really. I was in Camden Market desperately attempting to keep control of a group of fourteen thirteen year old girls. I'm not used to this type of thing. Thirteen year old girls are evil, they've got attitude and they're not afraid to use it. In the midst of the chaos and pandemonium I left the pack. I strolled around Camden Market for a spell and got captivated by a little Chinese bloke selling bags. Before I knew what was happening some money had changed hands and I had become the proud owner of a trendy multi pocketed manbag, replete with leather bits, labels, zips and functions galore.

I rejoined the pack of evil female hormones and got dragged off to an all you can eat Chinese buffet place, where the group proceeded to put the restaurant into liquidation.

The last bag is the one I'll use the least, yet the most expensive. It's a sexy Samsonite suitcase. I don't know why I bought it. One of those whim things, or because I've never owned a decent suitcase before. Someone recently called me a "Pikey" because I don't own quality suitcases. My air travel life has consisted of living out of suitcases bought from the Pettah. You know those ones, pockets everywhere, wheels that almost work, a strap that says "Olympic" and a combination lock with no instructions. And, if they did have instructions they'd say something like

"Try to set the number, it doesn't matter because the lock won't work and can be broken with no force whatsoever if required. But, if you own one of these suitcases no one will break into it. They know that the only thing inside will be frozen lamprais anyway."

But I reckon this Samsonite one cost me about sixteen times the price of a cheapo Pettah one. There's little chance that it will last sixteen times as long, even if it does I doubt whether I'll still use it by then. I must confess to a sad fascination in the quality of its zips, the feel of something that hasn't been stuck together with sellotape and the sheer novelty of a combination lock that both works and has instructions.

There you are. Three new bags, all a bit extravagant and all highly practical.

Now I just need to go somewhere!

Got The Decorators In!

We're in the middle of a big refurbishment at work. We've spent a few quid on getting virtually the whole place refurbished and redecorated. It was long overdue and, as we've just signed a lease to stay here for another ten years, it looks to be a good investment.

In the short term it means some discomfort. while one office is being done we have to squeeze like sardines playing a game of sardines into another office, then all move around the next week. My office this week is a room the size of that pothole on the Galle Road the other day. That is to say it's pretty supermassive for a pothole, but as offices go it's not up in the same league as an average Sri Lankan cabinet for sheer size.

The ceilings are not all put in place yet. The interesting result of this is that noise travels around from office to office in the gap above where the false ceiling will eventually go. Eavesdropping never been either so easy or so much fun. I can listen to conversations happening on the other side of the building with remarkable ease. Sadly none of them are interesting or even worth the effort.

I have noticed something that makes me smile and laugh, in a wholly boss like condescending and patronising way. Most of the office staff are women, no reason, no sexism, it's just the way things have turned out. I could tell tales about them being ugly and unattractive, but I shan't, that's not my style.

What I've noticed is the effect that a few manual worker types, all muscle and swear words, rather like myself except I don't have the muscle, have had on the gaggle of women. These women, who I have worked with for years, have suddenly become like supercharged sex symbols. There are high heels appearing where trainers used to be the norm, there's make up, trendy and stylish clothes and even laughter and smiles. I can live with most of it but laughter and smiling in a place of work is appalling, can you imagine the effect on productivity?

Women readers help me please. What on Earth is it about these manual worker types that makes women swoon and go all wobbly kneed? Why does a few days with a bloke that gets his hands dirty for a living make these women turn to putty in their calloused hands?

Most importantly; How does one go about getting one of these jobs?

How Many Can You Keep on The Go?

Books.

I was talking to a fellow the other day who only ever reads one book at a time. He only starts the next book once he has completed the current one. So, if said fellow is reading a crap book, he won't put it back on the shelf until it has been finished and he can move onwards and upwards. It could even be a reflection of the chap's character, but I'm not sure on that bit.

Me? I tend to have several books on the go at any one time, but right now I'm at some sort of peak in my reading career. There's about five non fiction works, two works of fiction (neither of which I'm keen on) and there's a backlog of about seven drum magazines that still need to be read.

On top of that there's also maybe ten books that I've bought but haven't even started. It's quite the mini literary festival round Rhythmic's place these days. Well, sort of.

The thing is, once a backlog begins, it just keeps going. I need to take some time off, go to a tropical island and sit around and read for a while.

It's a plan, just not a good one. I'll do the tropical island bit but I've no intention of sitting around and reading for the whole time.

What to do?

Instinct, Gut, Decision Making and Stuff

Gut feeling is a fascinating concept to me. When I was younger I used to be very much more conscious of my decision making process than I am now. I read books on the subject, I studied it in detail and I did everything I could to try and make myself a better and more effective decision maker. Of course, this was only after I had made the decision that it was a subject I wanted to improve upon, which took me a while.

For many years my decision making process was very deliberate and regimented. I'd write down the facts about a pending decision, I'd draw all kinds of charts, some of which I understood, then I'd sit down and come to a decision. It was a highly objective process, one that didn't often give the results required.

Then, a few years ago, I read a book about gut feeling and instinct. The book was a memorable one, sadly its title wasn't. It told stories of firefighters who could "sense" a disaster about to happen, the chaps who had evacuated their men from a building only to hear the roof come crashing down a few seconds later. Yet after the event they would struggle to figure out what made them realise the impending danger. This book talked about how we all meet people and sometimes take an instant dislike to them but can't figure out why, or we can take a huge liking to someone at a glance but not figure out why either. It explained that gut feelings and instincts are manifestations of our cumulative knowledge and that the brain often comes to that split second decision before we consciously think of all the facts and reasons behind the decision.

Apparently one of our common mistakes is to ignore the gut feeling and try to rationalise things too much, to use logic and reason where emotions and feelings should be relied upon. I thought about this and figured that it may be true, in my case at least. I thought of the many occasions when I had interviewed someone and given them a job, only to discover after an expensive year that the person coudn't do the job and would have to be fired. We all make mistakes and that wasn't a big problem. The problem was that I would realise that my very first thought on meeting the person was usually a very negative one. But, I always ignored that thought because it didn't appear to have any foundations. I realised that it was a big example of not recognising my gut feeling.

So I embarked on a bit of a mission. It was a mission to learn how to get in touch more with my instincts and to try to act more impusively. It was a mission to trust my feelings more and it wasn't anyway near as mad as it might sound. The key to it was to believe that my instincts were actually okay, based on a few years of experience and knowledge, and that they weren't going to get me into any big trouble.

I've had fun with this, I continue to enjoy it too. It's helped me become so much more confident in decision making. When I know that I'll come to a decision then I don't rush it. I spend time and effort in assimilating all the facts and figures, I invest whatever is needed into getting the advice I need. But then, I do the hardest thing. I wait. Sometimes I wake up in the morning and an important decision has just appeared in my head. Sometimes I spend a few weeks or months fact finding but then put all those facts to the back of my mind, safe in the knowledge that my mind will do its thing in the background, leaving me free to concentrate on paradiddles and bass drum technique, life's important things.

Last week I had a major thing to decide upon. I spent some time getting together as much information and expert knowledge as I could, I even tried to force myself to make a decision, but it just wouldn't appear. Or at least one that felt right didn't appear.

The answer was simple, sit back, relax and wait. Sure enough, after a couple of days I woke up in the morning and the answer was sitting there in the forefront of my mind, it seemed like the most obvious thing in the world yet it wasn't the solution that many had advised me to use, it was the one that I was comfortable with.

And this is what happens to me with increasing frequency now. I ponder for ages, I sleep on things, often for many nights. Then my mind comes to its own conclusion. That's the easy bit. The hard bit is to have the confidence and to really trust that my mind will make a decision, then I have to try to acknowledge it without letting logic, reason and straight line thinking get in the way.

It's fun, it's a release and it's different. It goes against the grain too, it's pretty hard to have to try and explain a course of action to someone using logic and common sense when you've actually decided on it because of feelings.

The key is confidence. Self confidence.

The First Set List

So I've got my first gig with the new covers band I joined coming up in a couple of weeks' time. The music is a little bit too "white rock" for my liking if it was my only band, but I've still got the mean machine that is Mimosa to get my fill of fantastic funky feelings from. Here it is and, because I'm so kind, I've put the names of the original artists by each song.

1. Do You want to - Franz Ferdinand

2. Spitting Games - Snow Patrol

3. Vertigo - U2

4. Holiday - Green Day

5. Golden Touch - Razorlight

6. Last Nite - Strokes

7. You get what you give - New Radicals

8. I Predict a Riot - Kaiser Chiefs

9. Dakota - Stereophonics

10. Rock 'n' Roll Star - Oasis

11. Suffragette City - David Bowie

12. Take me out - Franz Ferdinand

13. Chelsea Dagger - Fratellis

14. When you were young - The Killers

15. Tennage Kicks - Undertones

16. She Sells Sanctuary - The Cult

17. Creep - Radiohead

18. Brown Sugar - Rolling Stones

You like?

Sri Lankanisms - Number 5

So far in this series I have covered the more obvious Sri Lankanisms I can think of. Words like "chee" and phrases like "What to do" have been discussed and pondered on.

Now I must instigate a movement away from the obvious and on to slightly more obscure choices. Cynical types might point at me and say

"Ah, that fellow has run out of stuff and he's now scraping the barrel"

They'd be right, but barrels can be useful. Where would the fun lie in rolling over Nigara falls without one? Chaps would just die immediately. How would pubs take in their beer deliveries? Brewery lorries would pull up and there'd be lager, bitter and all sorts of yeasty things leaking all over the pavement. So I'm sorry, but I make no apologies.

But, you know the old "So what are you doing now, are you still studying?" conversation. Not so much a conversation as a series of questions thrown in your direction, the answers will be forgotten as soon as you have left the room, sometimes even before.

At the age of forty I have now got to the stage where most of my old Aunts and Uncles don't ask me whether I'm studying, after twenty something years they have finally realised that I work, raise children and do other adult type stuff. Of course the fact that I have a brother who is an academic, and therefore thirty something and still studying, confuses these olds big time. I'm not entirely sure whether it counts as still studying or what.

The smarter and more "with it" people remember what I do and listen to my answers. With others I just repeat the answers I gave them a few months ago to the very same questions. In recent years I've discovered the turn of phrase to take care of everything, the choice three words that satisfy their curiosity yet actually say nothing.

Here in England, when asked the question, I have to answer in some detail. This is particularly tiresome as I am involved in an industry that lacks glamour. International Mail is just not high up there on the list of options for the glamorous and adventurous. On the scale of excitement it falls some place between Chartered Accountant and Formula One driver, slightly closer to one than the other. But here, when asked what you do, it's usually because the other party is interested. So the answer is quite detailed, maybe incorporating some facts about the company as well as the industry.

Things in Sri Lanka are very different. When confronted by someone of a higher generation and an inquisition comes your way, you are faced with some options. You can engage in a full scale two way conversation. This has the possible advantage that the old Uncle may just remember it next time you meet and ask you how the Brain surgery / motor trade / arms smuggling business is going these days. The disadvantages are untold, but include endless advice along the lines of "you must speak to so and so who's a good friend of mine", etc.

You can choose not to engage. This has a high risk factor too. Specifically the danger that the Uncle will think of you as rude or he'll just take a disliking to you. Something no young man wants to risk when starting out.

But, if you use the three magic words wisely, all the problems disappear as if by magic.

"So what are you doing these days?"

"I'm in business Uncle"

I know, that is actually four words, but I added in the "Uncle" for effect. I can do these things, it's my blog.

The principle is there though. Those words "I'm in business" just seem to cover anything in Sri Lanka, you can be up to anything, from driving a Tri Shaw to being Chairman of an international organisation. As long as you work for yourself the words cover it, no further questions will be asked and the conversation will go off on a different direction.

In business. I love it!

What Would You Rescue?

Here's the scenario. Your house is on fire and you can rescue three things. For argument's sake let's forget people for now and assume that most sane people would rescue their loved ones above all else.

What three things would you rescue?

I would grab one special snare drum, my Craviotto Lake Superior, number 37 of 100, I'd grab my cymbal bag, hoping that all my cymbals were inside it and I'd get hold of my laptop.

The snare drum and cymbals are irreplaceable, no question about it. Cymbals all have their own unique sound and feel and, unlike drums, aren't tuneable, so every one is effectively a one off. My laptop is wholly replaceable but its contents are what I'd want to keep.

So, what about you?

What would you rescue?

Grills and Boys

I stayed at my parents' house the other night with the girls, so that I could see the parents off in the morning on their annual pilgrimage to Sri Lanka. One of the good things about retiring and getting old is the fact that they can prance off for a few months every year and go wherever their hearts desire, which is always Sri Lanka plus at least one other destination each year. Of course, the downside about doing this as they get older is the fact that they can remember fuck all about it. This may also explain why they do it every year, perhaps forgetting that they went there last year.

There I was, I woke up at about 7.30 and loaded my parents into a cab, complete with more baggage than Britney Spears at a counselling session. I know you Colombians have some tough times at the moment, what with air attacks, flash floods, that massive pot hole on the Galle Road and, worst of all, the squash ball in Glichrist's glove business, but I was still rather envious. Even with all the crap going on I would have loved to have been on that plane heading towards Colombo. But I wasn't. Such is life.

Then I had a brainwave. I thought that I'd cook a full English breakfast for me and the girls. A simple idea, one which even a simple man like me should be able to accomplish. The kids had surfaced and were busy doing what they love, surfing music channels and looking for interesting videos. At one point they had settled on Natasha Bedingfield's latest offering, that one about having babies or something. I watched for a while and I think I paid some attention to the music. My attention span didn't last for long though, Natasha B dancing around in a distinct lack of clothes and looking quite sexy is enough to put any chap off the music and I was no exception.

So I waltzed over the road to the Tesco Metro thingy, complete with its full quota of Sri Lankan staff, and bought the necessaries for the aforementioned breakfast. Eggs, bacon, sausages, baked beans and fresh white bread. An English breakfast is second only to a string hopper breakfast for me. It has to be greasy, it has to be unhealthy and it has to be hearty. Muesli and cereal and all that yoghurt stuff is fine for people in Switzerland but my Britishness comes through as far as breakfast is concerned. I don't normally eat any breakfast but, when I do, it's got to be a full E, complete with a mug, not a cup, of tea. It's one of the pleasures of British gastronomy and frankly I don't think there are that many.

My plan was advancing nicely, the ingredients were purchased, I managed to retrieve the various frying pans and saucepans from the dark recesses of my parents' kitchen and it looked like all systems go. Until I encountered the grill. Or oven grill combination I should say, complete with turbo function too. My Mum had said to me, before they left

"Rhythmic, if by any chance you need to use the grill all you have to do is....." then she went on to give me detailed instructions and point out all the features of this marvel of modern technology. Unfortunately, like most sons, upon receiving any kind of instruction from their Mother what I had heard was this

"Rhythmic, if by any chance you want to use the grill blah blah blah blah blah blah......." I think I may have also heard the drum part to the introduction of "Do you want to" by Franz Ferdinand, but I can't be sure of that, it might have been "Take me out".

There's me, a grill oven with turbo feature, lots of raw food and several knobs, none of which have clear markings. If I were an oven maker I'd put real writing above the knobs. Real writing that said things like "Grill" and "On" or perhaps "Off". Not pictures, pictures that look like nothing that exists in real life. Stupid pictures that only can be understood by cooks. I turned a knob and waited. I know that grills, the electric type, take a little while to come on, so I was ok with the whole waiting principle. But after twenty minutes I realised there was a technical issue; no heat. I returned the knob to its previous position and tried the next knob. Fifteen minutes elapsed this time and by using that tried and tested method of touching the element with my finger I discovered that this knob was not the right one either. As lunchtme was fast approaching I figured that there was only one solution. It goes against the grain for a man and I'd appreciate it if you kept this quiet, what with my reputation and all, but it was RTFM time. Yes, it was time to Read the Fucking Manual.

I managed to find the manual and located the page that explained how to use the thing. I then turned the correct combination of knobs to get the grill started. I had discovered that, instead of using just one knob, what was involved was a cunning combination of two of the things, one to activate the grill, complete with turbo function, and one to select the correct amount of heat. It defies logic I know, clearly this isn't a Apple grill. If it had been I'd have had it up and running within seconds and by this time I'd have been tucking into my full English and wondering why all other grills weren't designed with the user in mind.

Anyway, the grill started its grilling and I put the sausages and bacon underneath it. After a few minutes I wanted to turn the things over, as I've seen Delia do in her more advanced lessons. But there was a snag. There was no handle on the grill pan. It had one of those things that clip on, with gravity and the various other laws of physics being the things that make it work. I located the handle. It was inside the grill / oven combination so taking it out involved some burning of fingers, an occupational hazard I presumed. Then, as I was taking out the grill pan, the whole contraption collapsed on me. Had it not been for my lightning reactions I could easily be talking to you now from underneath a pile of hot sausages. Luckily I managed to tilt the thing towards the oven so they all fell, one by one, back into the oven. I fished them out, put them back on the grill and concentrated on frying some eggs. That's not easy either is it?

One daughter doesn't like fried eggs and the other eats several plateloads of anything that's put within striking disatnce of her so I only had to do one fried egg for one daughter plus whatever I required. I started to fry the thing. I managed to turn it over without breaking it then I had to do the really tricky bit. The distance between the frying pan and the plate is one of those optical illusions. It can look to be a matter of inches but in actual fact it's 26 miles and 385 yards, or thereabouts. As the egg hovered in the gap it decided to plummet towards the work surface. It landed and my perfectly fried yolk promptly exploded and leaked everywhere. Bummer, I thought as I deftly picked it up and put it on the plate. I hid the broken parts underneath the burnt parts, an idea I was pleased with. I added all the extras, the sausages, the bacon, the baked beans, which are quite easy to burn, and presented the dish to the ten year old. She's the one that will eat lots of anything and she wasn't going to break the habit of a lifetime so she just steamed in and enjoyed herself.

I continued with the rest of the preparation. It was relatively easy as I made more eggs for me, assembled the rest of the stuff for the elder sister and put things on plates and we all steamed in quite contentedly.

At this point my academic brother appeared. He had come for the weekend and was looking on at my endeavours with interest, and scorn. I ranted at him about the lack of logic involved in the grill operation and he laughed, in the way that younger brothers do when sympathy towards their elder sibling is in short supply. He had analysed the situation and come up with his diagnosis of the overall problem

"Basically Rhythmic you're just not used to cooking are you?" He summed up.

Never a truer word, I thought later on, as I dipped my bread into the yolk and dreamed of string hoppers, chicken curry and pol sambol.