Last Of The Two Parters

My recent spate of two part posts has been unplanned and unintentional. I don't want LLD to be some kind of soap opera, nor do I want my life (as wittily portrayed by me) to be one. The main reason for the flurry of two parters has been simple; I started to write each one and realised that it was going to be a huge long thing so gave up at a reasonable point with some dots and the intention of finishing later. Sorry about that, I don't want to make it a habit......

But the next episode of K, Me and the Poo has to be installed, because it was funny and because it followed where we left off, as next episodes usually do.

Remember we'd dropped off the poo infested Converse Allstar at the girls' mother's place, much to her chagrin. We headed off to Kingston, our fairly local shopping centre / town / chav's place. The only regular reader that I know for sure knows Kingston is Lady Luck, but she hasn't been heard of since about 1942.

At 11 and 13 the girls still fight for the front seat of my car. It doesn't matter if the journey is a quick half mile trip or a mammoth one, the fighting is still the same. It involves both of them arguing about who sat in it last, a run down of recent journeys and who sat where, then a furious two way sprint in the general direction of the car with some shouting paternal type things from me. Sadly the combat isn't about the pleasure of sitting in the seat next to me, it's simply about who gets control of the stereo and therefore, in theory at least, who gets to choose the music.

I've noticed something with the two of them in the last few months that I hadn't expected to be so marked and, well actually I hadn't expected it at all really. It's that they're suddenly forging out their individual identities in that big thing called life. With slightly less than two years between them they've always been best buddies as well as worst enemies and, when not at school, they've pretty much done everything together, sharing things in that way that a pair of siblings often do.

They've listened to the same music and had the same taste, they've worn clothes similar in style, though never in that Sri Lankan way when you see siblings dressed in identical clothing.

But they're now branching out on their own and finding themselves and it's quite fascinating to watch. K, the younger one who you know so well, is going down that grungey route. She's listening to the music and dressing the part. It's all angsty American bands and skinny jeans, Converse (s) and dark clothing.

A, the elder statesgirl, is more English yoof in her approach. It's one of hoodies with expensive labels, trainers and Timbaland CDs and other R+B types. More strangely she's a huge Luciano Pavarotti fan (honestly) and no one can figure out why. She's got CDs and videos of him and drives everyone around her crazy with this unusual fondness for the late tenor.

As time rolls on I know that they'll separate even more in their likes and dislikes and in their strengths and weaknesses too.

It reminds me of myself and Academic Bro, the way we have gone through similar experiences. These days he's the lucky and gifted one. He's got the intellect and sheer brainpower that I would give my right and left brain for. He writes things that people read and then they go off and write about what he's written and he's got letters after his name. I've been the one who merely got shallow and lightweight qualities, of no use in everyday life. All I have is my good looks, a brilliant sense of style, my charm and my captivating sense of humour. One has to make the most though.

K had won the battle fot the front seat this time. I think her determination had been the deciding factor and most of that was because, for the ten minute trip to Kingston, she had grabbed two CDs from her bedroom that she wanted us to listen to. It's one of those touching warming things actually, that K really wanted me to listen to the CDs and to like them, some sort of approval thing. Well we spent the journey flicking through the tracks, A already knew them inside out because they had been inflicted upon her incessantly.

The CDs? One was an old My Chemical Romance album and the other was by some American sounding band called Paramor (sp?). I listened and told K that Paramor wasn't my bag of chips, too straight sounding and not even the slightest hint of funkiness present. My pleasure at the fact that they both love music and already have a passion for it far outweighs any negatives about what either of them is currently listening to and I think they both know that. I get a dichotomous sense of satisfaction when I try to reverse out of their drive and can't get the car in gear because the front seat occupant has already got her hand on the iDrive thing and is "sorting out" the music. It makes me proud that they're so into their music and a bit pissed off that I can't get the car into gear.

We got to Kingston. The trip was littered with a selection of tracks from My Chemical Romance, Paramor and Muse, yet had only lasted about ten minutes. After being bombarded with the first two bands I had pulled rank and insisted on Muse, probably the one band all three of us like, which explains why they let me pull rank.

Our first task was to get some new school shoes for K. Her previous ones had broken, probably from moshing or something, and the requirement was urgent. As I was led into the first shop by the two of them I looked around at its customers. They were all youngish girls and women, the sort that chaps of my age feel uncomfortable looking at for fear of having "sticky" eyes and then getting arrested.

A diplomatic way of putting it would be to say that this shop didn't look like a borough approved supplier of school uniform. The first part of the shop my eyes had fallen upon was one full of bras, flimsy ones at that. I averted my gaze and peered at a bigger part of the shop. This one was full of thongs and brightly coloured G strings. You know me, I believe that pants should be subdued and kept private, so I was distinctly uncomfortable.

"Come on Dad, the shoes are over here, at the back" said a daughter, probably one of mine.

I was like one of those hypnotised people. I was fully cognisant of what was going on but I couldn't control it and I felt uneasy about it. At some level in my mind I knew I was in the middle of a scam, I just didn't know what was going to happen or how it would reveal itself.

Part 3 will follow..........

K , Me And The Poo

K, the 11 year old continues to test me, in ways that any parent will smile about. She's rapidly becoming an emo kid, which both bothers and amuses me. If you don't know what an emo kid, or person, is then please look it up as I don't really know for sure and I'd love a full explanation.

What I do know is that the "emo" is an abbreviation of emotion, or emotional, and that at the studio where Mimosa rehearse there's a sign up on the wall. It says:

"Any band caught playing My Chemical Romance or the Manic Street Preachers will be asked to leave immediately."

That's enough information for me, I know that us musos just shouldn't be known as emos. I also know that if anyone accuses K of being an emo kid she hates it and gets all, well. all emotional about it.

I went to collect the girls from their mother's place on Friday evening. The evening was uneventful, in as much as any evening in the company of my mad Sri Lankan Dad can be. But it was the next day, or Saturday as we call it in these parts, that I wanted to tell you about.

The beginning of a month is pocket money time. I found myself in a generous mood, which is dangerous for my bank manager and my current account. Before I knew where I was I had promised things to the girls. The things were their pocket money, the Timbaland CD for the eldest, an iTunes card for K and an extra £20 each of spending money as a treat. You may be aware that I am a highly skilled and finely trained negotiator, a business person with a few staff and some serious responsibility.

So I was a tad suprised that, with all my acumen and many years' of experience, I had negotiated with the girls that, in return for pocket money, CD and iTunes card and a total of £40, they would tidy my front garden, a job that took them about five minutes. It wasn't one of my best negotation scenarios and win / win only applied in the context that both of the girls won.

My front garden is a tiny thing, probably no bigger than than the Green Cabin's wine list, and the tidying that we had agreed upon was a job that only entailed collecting rubbish and putting it in a black bag. If I had two sons I feel sure that it would have been done quickly and easily with little drama. However, both my daughters are girls, so it was done quickly, not easily and with more drama involved than the play with Nimmi Harasgama that I'm rather looking forward to seeing this Saturday.

Let's face it, us boys are masters of logic and linear thinking, we may not be good at multi tasking or advising a female friend on her relationship problems but give us a job like putting up a shelf or making a fire and we're in our element. I had also made it clear to the girls that the £20 they were each getting was NOT payment for the garden tidying, more that it was a present and I was asking them to do me a favour with the garden business. All three of us knew it wasn't true though.

They set off into the wilderness of my botanical feature. I had supplied the equipment needed, a black bin bag, and I thought all would be smooth. After about two minutes one girl, I can't remember exactly which one, came into the house.

"Dad have you got something long, so that we can put the rubbish into the bag easily? Ah, this will do." she said. She was, and now I remember it was K, looking with some excitement at my quite expensive designer kitchen tongs, the ones with the blue silicon handles.

"No, they won't do, they're my good tongs"

"Well what can we use then?" she responded, with all the attitude and sneeriness that you now expect from her.

"Ermm I've got a broom in the shed, what about that?"

"No" she huffed "Something shorter".

Let's look at the facts; I'm relatively newly divorced, living on my own and I play the drums and love Sri Lanka. The only thing I have that even vaguely fitted what was required was a mountain of drumsticks, old, new and any age in between. We went through them and I filtered out a pair of slightly more knackered that the other ones. K set off to the garden again. I waited for the next bit. It didn't take long for A to wander in.

"Dad can I have a pair of sticks too?"

"Yes, but why doesn't one of you hold the bag while the other puts the rubbish in it?" I stupidly asked.

"Because we both want to pick up rubbish."

We found another pair of sticks and off the elder sibling went. I sneaked a peak out of the window and caught a quite comedic sight. It was bit windy out there and they were each wearing one of my overcoats. They were trying to use a pair of drumsticks each to pick up rubbish. Picture your grandfather trying to eat with chopsticks while in a wind tunnel and you'll get the idea, unless you're Chinese and your grandfather is an aerodynamics engineer. Then, once one of them had managed to grab a stray Kit Kat wrapper or whatever it was, there was more effort and the same girl tried to open the bag and get in into the receptacle. I watched, chuckled and then left them to it. It was a paternal chuckle.

I think a paternal chuckle is one that doesn't last for very long, because something's always about to happen. It did.

"Dad, Dad I think I've trod in dog poo."

The voice of K got louder as the sentence progressed, which led me to believe that she was saying it while walking through the house towards me. It was too much to hope that she might have taken off the offending shoe, one of her sideways lacing Converse All stars no less. I saw her heading towards the kitchen, both Converse (s) on her feet.

"Wait, stop take the bloody shoe off" I shouted.

"Take which one off?" she asked.

"the one with the poo on"

"But I don't know for sure if it's poo"

"Just STOP and take it off"

"But it's got poo on it"

"TAKE IT OFF"

She did.

"Is that poo?" she asked as the Converse was almost thrust into my face, I'm actually wincing and screwing up my nose at the thought as I type this. It definitely was poo, sometimes you just know these things.

"Looks like it" I replied in a Detective's tone of voice.

"But smell it if you want to make sure."

She offerred me the opportunity. I declined. She did the honours. It was poo, but you, me and her knew that already.

Once again I had run at full speed into the boundaries of fatherhood. My face hurt, probably like one of those elephants feels when it hits an electric fence, though my nose is smaller, as I realised I was expected to do the cleaning Converse duties.

K gave me one of those angelic looks but I wasn't fooled. Mercilessly I sent her outside, you know to the front of the house by that tree on the pavement. She asked me what she should use and we found a handy twig. She got scraping and I went inside to clean the floor. When I went back to check her I found no progress had been made. She needed water, preferably flowing from a tap, an outside one. I haven't got one of them, but I did have a solution.

The cleaning operation was abandoned and I found a plastic bag, wrapped the offending Converse in the bag and, a few minutes later, we set off in the car, towards her mother's place, the one that does have an outside tap. On arrival I explained the situation to my ex, she wasn't best pleased, but we got K another pair of shoes, left the soiled one for her to clean later and set off for Kingston.

And what happened in Kingston is another post altogether....

A Load Of Pants

It is with great pride, pleasure and honour that I reveal my brand new pantaloon collection to you, my readership. Courtesy of Odel, that fine establishment.

My understanding is that brightly coloured pants are all the rage in the mens' undergarment world, so I have joined the thong throng.

The accountants and finance people among you will notice that there are exactly seven pairs of the new garish beauties. That could mean that I'll wear one each day, wash them all at the weekend and then start afresh every Monday. But, no, this will surprise you but I have other pairs also, so I think an average Rhythmic week from now on will see a mixture of coloured pants, or perhaps I should say pants of non white visual appearance, as well as a few plain blacks, blues and whites.

Interesting times are ahead.

What's new in your wardrobe this week?

Absolute D.I.C.R.O.V.E

Or something along those lines.

I got in a few moments ago after taking the girls for dinner at my parents' house. Although I had heard it today I got confirmation when I just opened my mail. Yes, the decree absolute is finally through. After some minutes of staring at the "certified copy", specifically the bit where it says "marriage of......was dissolved on 25th March 2008" I really do believe it.

By coincidence this was on the very day that the window seat thief was doing her thing. For all I know at the very moment the judge was rubber stamping my divorce the window seat thief may have been indulging in her own type of watersports.

Wow, it feels big, weird and a touch on the emotional side. After almost fifteen years' of marriage that's it. Done, dusted and divorced.

I guess there must be a few divorcees out there who read this and I wonder how you felt when it happened, although I know full well that divorce is still illegal in Sri Lanka, or is that homosexuality?

One thing's for sure; the past year has been one of the most eventful of my life.

Today is certainly the first day of the rest of my life.

My Weekend (Part 2)

If you read my last post you'll recollect that I was on a plane, returning to London, with a youngish hijabed girl sitting next to me. She had quite viciously nabbed the window seat that I wanted so much, then promptly fallen asleep before take off, the result being that I couldn't watch Mother Lanka fade away as I had wanted to.

She may have been a rocket scientist, a highly successful business person or a much published writer, but whatever she was, she looked like she hadn't been on a plane before. If you fly on Sri Lankan airlines a lot you may share my glee in watching a newbie trying to figure out how the touch controls on the video screen work. You know, when you can change channels and adjust everything by touching a bit of the screen, it's now de rigeur on most phones, iPods and gadgets but many older people just can't get the idea. To most kids these things are second nature but to my next door neighbour it was always going to present some kind of obstacle course.

I watched her fumble with the screen for a while, I had been aware of her watching me as I had channel surfed at regular intervals. I never watch films on planes, I find the screen way too small and feel that I'd always rather read or listen to my iPod, but I do invariably end up reading or listening to music with the Sri Lankan variety channel on without the sound. Visions of sarong clad chaps fighting over village girls always does it for me.

This time most of my viewing of the aforementioned channel was accompanied by Muse's new live album. There was an interesting juxtaposition between the sounds hitting my ears and the images hitting my eyes. But whenever I had changed channel I noticed that she was watching me to work out what to do to her screen. I did what any person with my level of maturity and kindness would have done if they were faced with the same situation; I operated as quickly as possible and fluttered my fingers around the screen at about seven times the speed of light so that she'd just get confused.

I think it worked, when she got brave enough to try to turn her screen on she didn't have the foggiest idea what to do. I love it when a plan comes together.

At some point she lapsed into her second sleep of the voyage. I sat and did my stuff even though I did have my miracle inflatable pillow at the ready for the onslaught of tiredness. She went out like a light again and I figured that her night before must have been a heavy one. After some time I started to doze off too.

Now, this isn't the big thing, but a small diversionary one. I suddenly found myself woken from my slumber. As I opened my eyes I realised that I had fallen asleep sitting upright in my chair and facing forwards. Window seat thief was to my left and had fallen asleep facing the right, which was basically me. You know when you get woken up by something and can't figure out what it was, the sensation of confusion that lasts for a nanosecond but feels like a year. Like when you wake in a strange environment and it takes a few blinks to work out exactly where you are. Well that's the thing that happened to me. I knew where I was, but for 0.64 of a nanosecond I couldn't figure out what had woken me.

And then I did. At some point in her siesta window seat thief had rested her weary head on my shoulder. I was pretty sure that I had been woken by the thud as her head hit my shoulder, so I knew that it hadn't been long, certainly not long enough for a picture to be taken and emailed to Hi! Magazine or anything like that. Luckily the thud had woken her as well. We looked at each other and she apologised and turned away. I got all British, told her it was ok and apologised too. What for I haven't got a fucking clue to be honest but it's the correct way to behave. We both went back to sleep.

I woke some hours later. It was that spell on a long haul flight when the sky outside is dark, the interior lights of the plane are off and all is peaceful, with a mysterious smell of vomit wafting through the cabin. Most of the passengers are asleep and the air crew get a quiet period during which most of them head to the toilet for a quick line of charlie. I looked around me and saw that window seat thief was off in the land of nod. So I relaxed and leaned to the right and daydreamed of drums, Lanka and London. Come to think of it that could be a good name for a blog, it's just not quite right.

One of the things I do on any long flight is to buy a bottle or two of water to take on board. It means I don't have to drink the aircraft tap water that is bunged out and that I can also drink when I'm thirsty, always a bonus. So, in the seat pocket in front of me, was my half drunk bottle of mineral water. Now, I was facing to my right and sitting still and quietly as I dreamed. A person on my left would have seen just the back of my head and assumed I was asleep.

Now here is the big thing, the one you've been waiting for. I heard a noise, a plasticky noise, as if Michael Jackson was picking his noise. I turned my head to see window seat thief with her hand in the seat pocket in front of me, that is MY storage bit, and her hand was on my bottle of water. I looked shocked and she looked startled, though perhaps it was the other way round.

"Errmm I'm just having some water if that's alright" she said as she had my bottle of H2O in her hand. For the second time in the flight I came over all British.

"Yes, of course help yourself" I probably should have apologised for not pouring it into her mouth but I was too flummoxed.

She unscrewed the bottle and then did that Sri Lankan drinking thing, you know, when you drink from a bottle without letting your lips touch the container, sort of pouring the liquid into an open mouth. It's something I can do quite well but I never indulge in as I just can't taste the drink properly. As calmly as you can imagine she then put the top back on the bottle and placed it back in the seat pocket. She turned her head away from me and promply went back to sleep.

I felt like Bishop Brennan when he got his arse kicked by Father Ted. I sat open mouthed in my seat trying to figure out if it had really happened and if so, why? We had been on the flight for about seven hours and, during that time, the air crew had gone round umpteen times, maybe a few more even, with cups of water, apple juice or orange juice. My little bottle of mineral water was so obviously one that I had bought, not something that the crew had given out, and it was so obviously in the seat pocket where I had put my things.

She must have thought I was asleep and figured she could nick a few swigs of my water while I dozed. I just can't believe that she had made an honest mistake and thought that she had some sort of claim on the bottle, yet she didn't seem like the stealing type. That's despite the now well known fact that she had stolen my window seat so brazenly.

I'm sure if I was Darwin or one of these other quick thinking dangerous types I would have refused her request as it happened and made her feel small and embarassed, probably with a quickly thought out bit of wit that would have been worthy of Oscar Wilde, Mervyn Silva or any other iconic person. But alas, this is me and I could only stare open mouthed like Bertie Wooster caught stealing something from a room by an Aunt, then think of things after the event.

After she fell asleep I quietly removed the bottle and left it under my seat. I felt inherently uncomfortable about drinking from it again, although her lips hadn't touched it as such. I can share a drinking from the bottle experience with the best, or worst, of fellows if I know them, but I draw the line when it comes to a total stranger, especially if they're a thief.

There you have it.

What would you have done?

My Weekend (Part 1)

At my desk in my office with Colombo running through my head. It's becoming a familiar feeling.

The break was a quick one, four days of heat, atmosphere and people. Four days of absofuckinglutely great food, the usual dishes that make all the mouths of all the diasporic Sri Lankans drool and yearn for the taste and the texture.

This time I've made a little list of things that I could blog about. Usually I get back from somewhere with a head full of stories I could regale you with, only to find that the head has got the memory of a trishaw driver and, by the time I come to put pen to paper, or fingers to keyboard, I've forgotten the stories I wanted to share. Not that many trishaw drivers have blogs, but you know where I'm coming from.

I've got to start with one of the last things that happened, because I can, it's my blog after all. It's about the plane trip back, specifically about the woman who sat next to me.

Taking a more relaxed than usual approach to my check in I arrived at the airport a mere two and a half hours before the Sri Lankan airlines flight. By my standards that's as good as arriving after the gate has closed. I checked in and was told that a window seat wasn't available because one hundred and fifty people had already checked in and there were none left. Fair enough, I thought, although I felt some bitterness at the thought of those people being package tourists with their little white box of Kuoni flowers and patronising attitudes towards anyone with a brown skin.

I took my seat, the aisle one next to a window one, and wondered what my neighbour would be like. A couple of minutes later there she was. I was gifted with a youngish Sri Lankan woman in full hijab. Much of my family is Muslim so I have no issue with that side of things, I'm only trying to describe her to you. She must have been in her late twenties and had the aura of someone who'd never been in a car before, let alone a plane. In fact she looked so green I wouldn't even be surprised if she'd never been in Odel before, Now I think I'm mature and calm enough to know that life is made up of all sorts, some have more experience than others and many go out and try things for the first time.

But, on a long haul flight I'd rather not be sitting next to one of them. And, from the way she walked up the plane and studied the seat numbers, the way she took about half an hour to put her hand luggage in the overhead rack and the way she looked around at the environment I just knew I was in for a challenging eleven hours.

After sitting down and pressing every button she could see, just to see what they do, she promptly fell asleep. The gap between deciding to go to sleep and falling asleep was tiny. There are things in nature that take incredibly short periods of time, like light travelling and the Sri Lankan rupee depreciating, but this was something else. The only thing I can think of that I've seen occur so quickly is the speed of a Sri Lankan father falling asleep after a meal a few shots, any Sri Lankan father, it's in the genes.

But, bang, quicker than you can say "bang" she was gone, out for the count. As the aircraft took off, as the Kuoni flower box wielding Suddhas looked out of their windows and watched Sri Lanka disappear I looked at my neighbour and cursed her. She was asleep and she had what I wanted; a fucking bloody window seat. I so wanted to watch as I left the country. I don't know if you get that feeling too. It's a kind of desire to say goodbye, to watch the greenery and the reddish brownness of the land slowly fade away. To see the vehicles as they progress with such disorder along their roads, to watch the waves lapping along the west coast of the island as the plane heads upwards according to the map thing on the screen.

For me it's a very nice and complete way to leave, to see things dissipate and quite literally become smaller until they go into that thing they call the memory bank. Instead I got the image of a snoring fast asleep woman who, in all honesty, wasn't up there for me in the attractivenees ratings along with Jen and Britney (in her Slave 4u days of course). Next time I'll be checking in about nine days before the flight time. I need that seat.

Once she woke the window seat thief began to watch me. I felt a bit sorry for her, as much as anyone can feel for a blatantly cruel person anyway. She was watching everything I did, how I changed channels on the video screen, how I reclined my seat, how I pulled out the footrest, you name it she observed it and learned. I was tempted to have some fun. I thought about pressing a button on the screen and farting but there wasn't enough gas, or cruelness in my psyche, to do it.

We exchanged a few pleasantries, nothing much though. Then, several hours into the flight she did the thing. The thing that flummoxed, startled and left me with a puzzled brow and a "did that really happen" thought. As I sit here at my desk I can't fathom whether I reacted wrongly or if I shouldn't even have been bothered by what she did.

I'll tell you about it later.....

Hot In The City

Joy of all Joys, here I am bunging out a quick post while sitting in the Barefoot garden. I decided to take a quick four day Easter break to see Colombo and I couldn't be feeling more chilled and more relaxed.

The city's hot and the streets are empty, as all have gone outstation. It's a bit of a ghost town but that's ok for me. I've never seen it as quiet as this and there's an eerie stillness to the streets, particularly at night.

Rumour has it that there's snow, or sleet, in London. I've got a cold beer, some musicians setting up due to kick out some chilled jazz vibes for the afternoon and I DID make contact with Java and we have set a date of sorts for tonight.

Later I might even check out the Powercut Circus and Stigmata gig.

Life can be so cool sometimes!

Rice, Drums, Electric Violins and Social Services.

I had the girls last night and chaos reigned supreme, in a very amiable sort of way. They both had a day off school for some reason so we didn't have to go through the very tught time constraints that are normal for a Wednesday night.

School nights on Wednesdays are cut to the limit. Pick up is at 4PM on the dot, then there's a quick drive to take the 11 year old to her piano lesson. Me and her older sister then usually rush into town and to Tesco to grab some ingredients for dinner and the eldest invariably tries to buy me some fruit or vegetables, which always end up languishing on the side of my kitchen looking more forlorn than a particularly long faced horse.

Then we rush to my place, they pretend to do their homework and I begin cooking. The 13 year old has a quirky yet quite healthy desire for me to cook for them and not get takeaways or junk food in. I think it's something to do with her wanting to know that I'm cooking and surviving on my own mixed in with a desire to eat healthily for her too. To be honest it has helped my drive to learn how to cook as well. And that's how to cook western dishes that I would rarely do for myself.

At about dinner time I shout at them to get everything set, they pretend not to hear me, I shout some more and eventually they do what they're asked. We eat, the 11 year old has one of those stomachs that expands and has no limits at all, and there are no foods that she doesn't like. It would be a bad combination but her metabolism has also been made so that she's got that thin appearance going on too.

They're dropped back at 8.30 PM on the dot, so we set off shortly before, after the clearing up has been shared between us. Overall it's a fun time but it's quick and it's organised with military precision.

So a holiday night had the potential to be a bit more relaxed and a little less stressful. K, the 11 year old, still had her piano lesson but all else was going to be more easy going. Or so I thought.

To start with I had to jump through virtually a whole packet of Hula Hoops just to find the girls. On arrival at their house there was no one around and after a few frantic phone calls I managed to trace the elder sister to a friend's house and the smaller one to a different friend's house. I was given instructions on what to collect from their place for the evening, the plethora of piano books, laptops and electric violins.

At some point a bit later we finally got to my place. The piano lesson was done, the food was bought and petrol had been fed into my car. We had had a lot of fun listening to the new Muse album in the car, at volume levels that would probably get me labelled as a bad parent by many, but there were no complaints from either of my music loving daughters.

My first job was to set up the K's electric violin. She had been given it for Christmas and for many reasons this was time to finally set the thing up. She had tried with her Mother and they hadn't quite got it working so I had been pulled in as a reluctant "expert". After much investigation I found that the problem was within my realms of expertise, they had put the 9v battery in the wrong way around, and managed to get the electric violin and K on their way with screeching, wailing and other noises that most people never knew a violin could make.

I went into the kitchen and began to do my thing. The love of a parent is an unconditional love, but mine was being tested to its limits. K, the 11 year old, has been playing the violin for some years and is now quite good, but had never played an electric version before. A, the 13 year old, has been playing the drums for some years and is also a good player. I can listen with genuine pride to A playing the drums or to K playing the violin.

However, the combination that they had put together was tough on the ears of even me, their loving Dad. They had chosen to play "Yesterday", a song that K plays on her normal acoustic violin. A was playing along to it on the drums, my electric kit. Now on the acoustic violin it sounds quite pleasing, a lovely melody that most people recognise played in a subtle and smooth manner. On the electric violin, which was amplified for the first time, it sounded a bit like Jimi Hendrix playing the Star Spangled Banner but deciding to do a heavier version with more feedback and effects than the version we all know so well. On top of that was a funky little drum groove that would have fitted quite nicely on top of a Britney Spears song.

It was one of those occasions when a parent smiles and gives full marks, maybe more, for effort, knowing full well that the end result wasn't all that pleasing. I continued to chop my onions feeling a mix of pride and discomfort, as if my kids had been the first people ever to discover the effects of running fingernails down a blackboard.

I made a chili - ish mine thing with rice for dinner. Like any good Sri Lankans we all love rice, but K has a very strong love for it, even more than her love for any other food known to man. So, when the rice cooker made its "click" which indicated the rice was ready, K was in the kitchen ready to "sample" it in about half a nanosecond.

"Can I try it Dad?"

"No, go and get the plates and set the table and then you can." I responded in strict parental tones.

"No" said K. " I want to try it, if you don't let me try it I won't get the plates."

I'm wise to this behaviour, I know the way a child's mind works so I was ready for war.

"No, if you don't want to set the table then you won't eat. If you don't eat that's your problem, not mine. In fact there'll be even more for me and A."

I knew I was in an unassailable position. K, faced with the threat of no food would crumple and do whatever she was asked. As her father I know these kind of things and my superior intelligence and years of business experience and negotiation were no match for an smartarse 11 year old.

"Well if you do that I'll call Social Services."

"You what?" I asked.

"I'll call Social Services and report you for mistreating me."

I let her have the rice, then I got the plates.

It's important to know when you're beaten.

Music Making Me Merry

Music is important to me, if you're a regular then you'll already know that anyway. The older I get the more I feel that music and drumming are the things that really define me, that I'm comfortable with and I want to be immersed in. I think music, drumming and Colombo would be the three things I'd take with me to a desert island. And some white string hoppers.

But in the last week I've been surrounded by great quality music, as if it's coming at me from all directions and, in the words of Justin MacDonald, I'm lovin' it. To start with I went on a minor drummer's buying spree a couple of weeks ago when I was ill and feeling sorry for myself. I don't mean that I'm a minor drummer, although I am, but that wasn't my point. I meant that I was bored with watching daytime TV and old episodes of Miss Marple so I surfed to a drumshop's website and bought all the consumables that a drummer could possibly need. Things like new heads for all my drums, bits that go on top of cymbals and a host of other bits and pieces.

The most exciting purchase was a new book; a book specifically on playing funk, with a vast array of new grooves and ideas for me to work on. Funk is my chosen genre and in recent months I had been looking for some specific targets or goals to set myself for my playing for this year. I was drifting a bit and seeking an island to head for. Last year I tried to focus on learning new fills, with a target of learning a new one every week. The plan was going well but got ever so slightly derailed by the whole divorce and moving out and starting my life again thing.

Since I got the book I've learnt three or four grooves from it already and they really are fantastic. I know that I've stumbled upon a book that's going to give me month's of learning and new material. My drum book library is already quite full but most of them are books that don't fully inspire me, books that I'll often flick through, maybe work on a page or a chapter but then forget about it. This book feels different to me, one that I just know I'll devour and absorb, very probably over the course of the whole year. That's my first thing to be musically excited about.

My second thing is something that is almost definitely going to become my Sunday night routine, one that I like. One of my local pubs has starting hosting Jazz musicians on a Sunday night. There's a lot of history to this specific gig, it's one that has been going on for some years in another local pub and it's moved here while the original pub is being refurbished by new owners. Every week this gig has a different "star", usually someone superfantastic, but it's the backing musicians that make it for me.

Over the years this regular Sunday night event has turned into one that attracts the equivalent of royalty in terms of the musicians that play. The very top levels of pros turn up and play in a pub on a Sunday night for what I can only assume is the sheer love of performing with other like minded people. It's like turning up at your local park and finding the Manchester United team having a kickabout just for fun. Last Sunday I witnessed Ian Thomas play. You're unlikely to know his name unless you're a drummer but he's one of the most in demand players in the country. He's Tom Jones' regular drummer and played at Live 8, he's played with all the greats and I've seen him perform more times that I can count.

In recent weeks I've seen two or three really top level drummers play in this very same setting, but seeing Ian Thomas play was a sublime experience for me, a lowly dodgy drummer who wouldn't be worthy of setting up his kit. It was my equivalent of a religious experience. These gigs are often a coming together of superb musicians who, though brilliant players, often haven't had a lot of experience of playing together and therefore have to feel their way through the songs. We, the audience, see and hear them discussing what to play and then we'll see one of the band explaining the format of the song, the key changes and structure to the others.

Then bang, they play the song with more poise, confidence and tightness than any band I've ever been in can play a song that we've known inside out for many years, which may well be because of me on drums. My bands spend infinite amounts of time rehearsing our songs to get them sounding as tight and as good as possible. Then I watch people like this play and it reminds me that I've got a long way to go. The days of thinking "I may as well give up" are long gone. Music is a study that can take many lifetimes and watching experts perform motivates me to practice and to play in the most positive and inspirational ways.

The big lesson for me as a drummer, in watching this gig was how the top level players can express themselves not by the things they play but actually by the things they don't play. Many drummers, particularly at my level, think that the way to impress an audience is by hitting as many things as fast as possible. Mr Thomas' playing on Sunday was a masterclass in taste, subtlety and groove. He held back and let the other musicians get heard, he never fought for attention as so many do. Then, when it was his turn to solo, he'd come out with the most spectacular playing a drum fan could imagine. Theena, Java, Confab if you're reading this I just know you would have loved it.

My third and final bit of musical mayhem is the fact that Muse have released their new album. It came out on Monday and is a live one, complete with a DVD of the performances. The thrill for me is that it was recorded over their two gigs in Wembley in the summer, one of which I went to with the girls and Academic Bro. It was the first proper gig I've taken the girls to and the first proper one they've been to and we all loved it. I think that one of my lifelong memories will be the whole of Wembley Stadium jumping up and down in unison to Starlight and glancing at my eleven year old headbanging to Knights of Cydonia, as was I.

So to have a DVD of this gig is a superb momento for me as well as being a great performance on its own right.

There you go; three musical things that are filling me with excitement and inspiration, just thought I'd share them with you.

Of course, I'm easily excitable.

Observations At The Hairdresser's

I went to the hairdressers the other day. I mean "hairdresser" as well, this is definitely not a barber. In my shaven headed days, which are now over indefinitely, I'd go to the local barber either every week or every fortnight. I'd sit in the queue, wait my turn and then step up to the chair. Some small talk about football, the weather or holidays would take place and then I'd part with my £7 or so and stroll off into the sunset.

You're probably thinking that anyone can give a head a grade zero with a set of clippers but actually it's not that easy. There are a few places I had been to that just wouldn't do a good job and I'd find bits of extra long hair sticking out of my bonce in the days after the event. But, let's be honest here, shaving or clippering a head isn't high up on the list of skills that they teach you at hairdressing school and therefore I wasn't overly fussy about where I got it done.

But now I've joined the ranks of you hair wearers (except for my bald patch) I feel it's important to have my hair done by someone I trust, who has taken the trouble to get to know my hair, my likes and dislikes and the way I like to lead my active and energetic lifestyle. It's nothing to so with the small army of young and sexy semi naked girls that work in the salon and strut around the place with clothes that leave nothing to the imagination.

As I sat there last week I looked around at all that was taking place in the vicinity. I looked at all the people in the hairdresser's establishment and chuckled inside my head. Immediately opposite me was a female hairdresser who's always there, perhaps because she works there. She, like most of the people who work there, is an intriguing looking person. At first glance they appear to be well up there on the sexy and attractive scale. But then, when you look a bit more, they're all a touch on the ropey side.

It's as if all these hairdressers are failed models. They dress like models, everything they wear is from a page out of Vogue or Roy of the Rovers or whatever fashion mag they read. I can picture the getting ready in the morning situation in the average hairdresser's house. In the case of drumming bloggers who run a small company the getting ready time can be as little as ten minutes from being in bed to leaving the house. That incorporates a shower, a shave and all the teeth stuff. Of course if a poo is required then I have to add a lot more time into the equation, but a good crap just can't be hurried.

But, for the average hairdresser it must be total nightmare in the mornings. They must spend more time in getting ready than just about any other tradesperson. The thought and effort that is clearly put in deserves recognition and a pat on the back, but the fact is that they're nearly all ugly people. I think it's a tangent from Darwin's theory of evolution and the whole survival of the fittest concept, I'll ask her or maybe she'll explain. But these hairdressers are all wannabe models, with the clothes, the attitude and the vanity, just without the looks.

Then there's the men. The men who are barbers are as manly as one can imagine aren't they? They cut hair, talk about football and women and ooze hydrocortisone, or is it testosterone? Either way they're real men. However, the "hairdressing" men are a different breed. First they've got the walk going on, the mincing one where they look as if they're clutching something between the old cheeks. Then they've got the carefully groomed look with just the right amount of hair product to make their hair look dishevelled and messy, as if they've just got out of bed. I care not whether they are gay or straight but I think it's fair to say that most of them are camper than a field full of tents with an air stewards convention going on.

Is it worth paying the extra that a salon trip costs? No way, not if you judge it by the quality of the haircut alone. But, for the entertainment value it's a bargain. So much to look at, so much to take in and such good fun. I'd thoroughly recommend it.

God - Opt In Or Opt Out?

Well, let me start this post by telling you how childishly pleased I am with the alliterative "Opt in or opt out" bit in that title. It wasn't deliberate, I just typed in something that came to me and there it was. If I could figure out a way to chuck in the words "out of order" to the title I'd be really happy and would probably not write anything else.

No Sir, I'd sit back with a cheshire cat type of grin on my face. I'd stare at my monitor and feel pleased with my wit and humour, probably have my hands clasped together in a superior body language pose. I'd be looking at my post. It would be called something like

"Out of Order, Oh God, Opt In Or Opt Out"

It would make no sense, but it's the sort of thing that these proper writers do; you know they come up with a strange sounding title and then write a book based around it.

But I shan't do that because I do have a vague point to make or to ask. And it is about God, or rather it's about religion in general and the differences between the Eastern and Western approaches and attitudes to it. Here's my thing.

I was born to a Christian mother and a Muslim father. Neither of them is particularly devout, though the female parent is more so than the conga playing male version. My brothers and myself were brought up with the attitude and beliefs that religion is something we should be made aware of and then we would be free to make any choices, if we wanted to.

As children we went to churches, we went to Mosques and we also went to temples and Star Wars films. We were given total freedom to choose any faith, not confined to Islam or Christianity. We ended up more or less choosing nothing as so many people in the UK seem to do. It's fair to say that neither me nor either of my brothers follows a faith.

We're all quite happy like that. Academic brother continually struggles with his insecurities about my vast intellect and music biz bro has always had trouble coming to terms with my good looks but none of that is to do with religion. I've just added it in for the sake of accuracy. The fact is that we're all content on the God front.

In contrast to the UK, or the West, what I've seen so frequently in Sri Lanka, or the East, is that so many people are born into a religion. It's also something I've seen among Eastern folks in these parts, the way that children are born a Muslim or a Hindu, or a Jedi of course. Maybe it's more apparent to me because my parents are mixed, but I suspect it's not the case. I reckon I would have been given that right of choice whatever the religious make up of my parents, that it's because of being brought up in the UK more than anything else.

As I've pondered on this situation I've come to the conclusion that the Asian way is to be of the faith of your parents, then as kids grow up and become older they either opt out or maintain the status quo. That is, they either make a conscious decision to follow a different faith or they continue to follow the faith of their parents. In the western world the more common approach is for a child to opt in, to choose to follow a faith as they move into adulthood.

Of course there are many other differences between the Asian and the European worlds, like the way white people rarely cook rice properly and the way Sri Lankans have much larger gaps between the toes, but these things can be left for another more serious post.

But regarding my religion thing, what do you think?

A Question Of Sperm

No, it's not my idea for a new quiz show, although I do see potential there. Mystery guests, what happened next, yes I reckon it could work if applied to the world of pornography rather than sport.

Someone said to me the other day that they often marvel at how good looking many kids are when they are born to older fathers. She was talking about a fellow of about 70 who has a child of about 3 or 4. It's not a phenomenon that I've paid much attention to but it did get me thinking.

Sperm, does it mature with age? And of course I'm not thinking along the cheese and wine principle here. More about whether the sperm of a man of 20 would be the same as that same fellow's sperm when he's 70, in terms of DNA and its general makeup. Is it possible that the sperm carries a fellow's experience in some way, the experience that the chap has garnered over his years.

Of course it's unlikely and I could have googled it and got definitive answers within 0.004 seconds, but I thought it's much more interesting to chuck it out into the blogosphere and see who our sperm experts are and what they think.

So what do you reckon?

Is sperm like cheese? Does it get better with age?

The Insecurities Of A Cool Dad!

I know that a few people who read here are parents, I know that some of you are even as old as Java and many of us must go through similar trials on tribulations on a daily basis.

Now I am quite proud to consider myself as a chap with a certain sense of style about my persona. I'm no David Beckham, although I'm probably far more at ease in a sarong than he is, but I'm also not one of those square types, the sort who wears clothes because they're comfortable and buys their jeans from Marks and Spencer's superb range.

And, as the years and the pounds pile on a bit, I find myself increasingly conscious of my appearance, particularly the need to "do the right thing" for my daughters. You see I've never wanted to be one of those square types, the M+S jeans wearing, average Nike trainer toting and normal "comfortable" clothing adverts. In the days when I used to sometimes collect the girls from school I'd look at the other parents and feel that I never wanted to look like so many of them.

But then I'd spot one or two of the more outlandish parents and think to myself "What the fuck's going on there? She looks like she's just copied page 74 of one of those catalogues, without reading the title where it says that this is what all the teens are wearing in more extreme parts of Camden."

And, as a parent I believe I shoulder many responsibilities, one of the most important ones being not to embarass my daughters. So I have to find a balance between looking trendy and stylish enough for them yet not go over board and appearing like some kind of twat. Some of the other parental responsibilities involve things like counselling, guidance, education and what have you, but dressing appropriately has got to be at, or near, the top of the list.

I am blessed with a bit of a head start too. Being a drummer, in two bands no less, means I gain copious amounts of street cred points with my girls and their friends immediately. There are other Dads of their friends who are captains of industry, in charge of huge empires, there are probably some who are MPs and the like (of course being an MP actually means something over here!). But in the Dad street cred stakes there is little that beats an old man who is in a band or two. Granted, if I were famous or in Take That I'd be virtually untouchable, but I can't complain as things are.

There's nothing worse than a parent who refuses to grow old gracefully. Which is where my current insecurities lie. The covers band played a gig at a school disco / party thing the other day. It was the school of one of the kids of our lead singer, so there were plenty of adults and what seemed to be about half a million screaming fifteen year olds hanging around looking dangerous and disinterested.

I suppose I'm relatively used to girls of about that age, but boys are an alien concept. I sat there and, in between bouts of coughing, I looked at the "uniform" that these boys were wearing. It disconcerted me. For my considerable research led me to the conclusion that today's youth, at least in London, is wearing skinny jeans, Converse All Stars and a thinly striped shirt with a collar and a fitted look. You know, the exact stuff that I had on too.

Really, hand on heart, I wasn't pleased about this. I don't want to be one of those Dads who all the kids laugh at because I dress way too young. I don't want to be the cause of embarrasment to the girls because I've got a Bobby Charlton and refuse to accept that my hair is thinning. Now I'm wondering where to go with this fashion issue.

Should I start dressing a bit "older" and become one of them?

Should I stay as I am and risk the loss of face and embarrasment to the girls?

Should I just wear what I want and forget about other peoples' opinion? (ridiculous I know but I'm told some people do take this approach)

What to do?

Changi Airport Mystery - Can You Help?

The last few times I've been to Singapore I've got the same flight out; at 9.oo AM on Monday morning. And, on each occasion, these women have been asleep in the coffee shop at the airport. Normally there's another two people, an older woman and a man I think. In Starbucks, with suitcases and bags around them as if they're about to go on or have just been on a flight.

For the life of me I can't figure out what they're doing there and why?

Any ideas? Or have you seen them too?

Where Have I Been?

A bit ill actually. I got myself a bit of a nasty coughing thing last week and it's turned out to be "severe bronchitis" as the emergency Doctor told me.

There are many things I love about England and the UK and I'm a believer in the good of the NHS and its Doctors, but getting to see a GP when you really feel ill is as hard as a bag of rocks with some nails in. It was February 29th so maybe they were all at Java's birthday party, that must be it. I rang my GP on Friday to be told that they had no appointments available until at least Tuesday, if I rang at 8.30 on Monday morning there was a chance I could be fitted in. Of course they aren't open over the weekend because illness doesn't happen at weekends.

I had two gigs to deal with as well, one on Friday and one on Saturday, both for the covers band. I got through Friday's one, a school party of some sort complete with an audience of screaming fourteen year olds, with a lot of discomfort. The coughing fits I had anticipated, so dosed myself up on more drugs than Keith Moon and John Bonham would have taken on a joint birthday do. My drugs of choice were Lemsip and Buttercup cough mixture, obviously no more than the recommended doses.

What I hadn't anticipated was how hard it is to keep a half decent groove going when I was sporadically coughing up what felt like the contents of my entire chest cavity. It was one of those racking coughs and, in a painful way, tested me and my playing. I noticed how the adrenalin buzz from playing helped me to deal with it too, that's a discovery that is worth remembering. I managed ok though, but can only thank my lucky stars I wasn't a white drummer, that would have been a hard task indeed!

I finished up that one, packed up and went home to sleep, cough and feel mightily sorry for myself.

Saturday's event was a bigger, more serious affair. A dinner dance thing to raise money for breast cancer. The venue was about a minute's walk from my daughters' house so they walked down to watch the soundcheck and set up, which was nice for me. It was one of the most spectacular venues I've played in; an old church that has been converted into an arts centre, huge high ceiling and more echo and natural reverb than an average airport PA announcer.

I was guilty of the proud Dad thing and persuaded my 13 year old to play on the drums for a bit, by telling her I wanted to hear how the kit sounded. It was true, I did, but I also wanted to show the others that she's a nifty drummer too. The plan worked a treat. But I also noticed my daughters pointing their phones in the band's direction during a couple of the soundcheck songs, so I have hopes that my reputation among their friends as a "cool Dad" because I play in a couple of bands remains intact. Not that I'm at all bothered by these things you understand.

The gig went outstandingly well, we played a couple of new songs including the Foos' "Long road to ruin" and my schoolboy fantasies of being Taylor Hawkins keep growing. What a great band, what a great song and what a fantastic drummer! Oh yes, those are the things Messrs Hawkins and Grohl would have been saying if they'd seen us play on Saturday night for sure.

At the midnight hour I turned into a pumpkin of sorts. It was a bit after midnight and I turned more into my road, but all else was true. I used up the last ounce of energy I had to unload my kit from the car, my head hit the sack and I felt happy, ill and relieved. I'd got through two gigs that I honestly had wondered about, that I'd thought about cancelling. I was pleased and knew that I'd get a Doctor out the next day to see me.

So here I am, all antibioticked up, lying in bed and have decided not to feel sorry for myself. Give me a day or two and normal service will be resumed.

There's only so much daytime TV and sleeping a chap can do, the energy levels are low and I've had to go into work in the mornings but this is the first time I've even felt like putting out a little blog post. I know it's not up to my usual standard of wit and intelligent insight but I feel sure you'll understand.

Back soon!

PS - I still hate Snow Patrol. And there were two different DJs at the gigs. Is there a law somewhere that DJs have to look like paedophiles and have all the social skills of Mervyn?

A Massage For You Rudy

I think you'll agree that one of life's little pleasures is a good massage. Not a sexy one involving "extras" or the new term I heard recently "a happy ending", I mean a good proper one by a good proper masseur, with the whole pain / pleasure line being smudged, blurred and generally beaten into oblivion, which is exactly what happened to me last week.

I was in Singapore and decided on a massage, as you may have guessed. The event was prebooked at one of the more reputable establishments and I arrived, to be greeted with herbal tea, soft music, that type that no one listens to except whales and people in massage parlours, and a full explanation of exactly what was going to happen. I opted for a head, shoulders and neck one. The woman then bunged me into one of those rooms and told me to take my clothes off and put on the disposable pants. Being a boy with childish tendencies I naturally had to amuse myself by putting the pants on my head for a quick minute, but keep that to yourself.

The masseur hovered into the room and I spent a few minutes wondering if they are specially trained to walk without leaving any sort of imprint or make a sound. Perhaps in the next "Ocean's 14" the new character will be a Singaporean masseur who can walk anywhere without setting off alarms and things. Remember, you heard it here first. Or didn't hear it as the case may be.

I was lying comfortably and marvelling at the joy and simplicity of a good massage table. There I was, face down but my face was peering at the floor through the hole that they incorporate into these things. As the next member of George Clooney's gang started work on my legs I felt as if I wasn't actually lying down but more floating, as if I were a sprig of parsley on a delectable bed of rice, probably pilau rice but you can choose whichever type you prefer if it helps to set the scene.

The agreement was that she'd do a bit of stuff on my legs and lower back, avoiding my penis, then move upwards and concentrate on my shoulders and neck. I remained on my bed of pilau rice and, as she advanced up my torso, I occasionally caught a glimpse of red toenail adorned foot. Her's that is, not mine you understand. I pondered on whether these masseurs are told that they should ensure their feet are neat and tidy at all times as they are the only bit of them the client might see.

Frankly I didn't pay much attention to them, but I did observe that she had an unusual amount of flesh around her toenails, particularly those on her big toes. I decided not to mention it though. She also had quite a large amount of toe cleavage going on, but some of that was because of the obvious pressure on her feet as she pummelled my back with all the force of a lead guitarist after being told that he's playing a little bit too softly.

As she moved up my back she got to the, and here comes the science, top middle bit, just inside the shoulder blades and towards my spine. The force continued and I wondered if I had upset her, maybe in a previous life, maybe when I had greeted her as I walked into the place. I often used to upset my ex wife by saying "hello" so it wasn't a wholly alien concept to me.

But my discomfort hit a new high, or maybe it should be a low, as she seemed to start massaging lumps in my body. It felt as if she had found a series of lumps that were like little hills, with a circumference around the base of about four or five inches. Not content with just discovering them she was now trying to flatten each one by pushing on them as hard as she could. I was in quite severe pain but also going through the man thing of not knowing if my pain was "acceptable" or I was being a wimp.

When anyone says to us men that we should just tell them if something's hurting too much it probably sounds like a simple equation to a woman. I can see why; the man is being dealt with by a Dr or a dentist or a tattooist or a masseur and all said man has to do is to raise a hand if the pain becomes too great. Then the disher out of the pain stops and we regain our composure and all the levels are reset to zero, for it all to start again. It sounds well and good and I can imagine women like Darwin happily telling the punisher when to stop without ever having to go through the mental turmoil we men have to suffer. Not that Darwin would ever feel pain, but you know what I mean.

Because we have macho issues. We suddenly start wondering if the pain we feel is normal, if the act of raising our right hand to signal to the tormentor to stop would be a slur on our masculinity. That the masochist would stop but after our session she'd be laughing over coffee with her colleagues at the previous customer, the one who asked her to stop at a level two, when all other men can go up to a level ten before they even feel anything. The result was that she continued pummeling these mountains in my back, I continued to feel as if I was going to pass out at any point but I refused to let the evil woman and her colleagues laugh at me and question my manliness during their coffee break. It felt good. And painful.

Then she said something that made me feel better

"You have a lot of tension in your back Sir"

I knew now that I wasn't struggling on a level two, that I was indeed at a ten, or perhaps a four. I let her carry on but I felt better about letting out the occasional groan of pain. When I say "occasional" I actually mean every time she touched me.

After some time we got to the end of the episode. I felt as if my upper back and its surrounding areas had been beaten into a pulp, that all these hills of tension had been flattened and were gone, like glaciers and global warming. As I stood up it felt strangely dichotomous; I was relaxed and free of tension as though my skeleton had been removed and yet I was walking upright and unhunched as if my spine had been straightened. My posture was better straight away and I hurt like hell.

The masseur asked if I spend most of my day hunched at my desk over a computer. I realised that I've got to change my posture and habits so, as I write this, I'm sitting as straight as I can, I walk around making a conscious effort to keep straight and I'm determined to get regular massages.

I've got a hunch it will be good for me.

I'll Slice My Own Bread Thanks.

I'm back after the little sojourn. It was one of the best, for many reasons and I'll be sure to tell you more in forthcoming posts.

One of the many highlights was my amazing discovery, although I suspect I'm not the first person to actually come across these things, which may well mean that it wasn't a discovery.

I'm one of the many who have always struggled to sleep on a plane. No matter what the seat, even on the rare occasions when I've travelled business class, good quality sleep has alluded me. And, with frequent trips to Sri Lanka and Singapore, I've done a few long haul flights so I wouldn't consider myself as one of the tourist types who can't sleep simply because they're sitting there with their eyes wide open and marvelling at the joys of flight, or free alcohol.

The only times I've slept well are on the couple of journeys when I've had three seats to myself. I've lied down and slept like a baby, not that babies ever sleep like that, but I'm just being poetic.

There I was, on my way out of Heathrow, wandering excitedly but aimlessly around the shops and doing that thing that we all do, contemplating spending money on stuff that I wouldn't even look once at normally. These chaps who own shops in the airports must be rolling it in. They've got a captive audience who are in a great and relaxed mood and probably have more money in their pockets than they usually do. As if that isn't enough they then charge about six times the high street price for most things anyway.

On a whim I browsed one of the stands in the luggage shop. You know those stands that rotate and hold a load of "travel" things. Portable irons that fold down to the size of a matchbox, slipper things that are made from old socks probably donated by poor people, plug converters that work in any country in the world and everything to do with luggage you can possibly think of.

I had a longish look at the item in question and contemplated buying one. In the past I've frowned upon this particular item, thinking that they were the sign of an old person or someone a little bit sad, who's just got a bit too much time to think about things. Well you know that I don't fit into those labels so I can only conclude that my past opinion was plain wrong. So I bought one, for the princely sum of about £3. At current exchange rates I believe that's about 300,000 of your good old Sri Lankan Rupees.

Yes my dear reader, I bought one of those inflatable pillow things. The type you see saddos pull out on a plane, then blow up and sleep on for hours on end. Which is exactly what happened to me.

These things are brilliant. In a matter of minutes I was transformed from an "No I can never sleep on planes either" type to a "I just get on the plane and sleep for the whole journey".

Take it from me, these inflatable pillows are so good that they should be made compulsory. If I owned an airline I'd give one away with every ticket sold.

I saw some people with proper beanbag pillow things but they're not the same, the hassle of packing these things away must be a serious negative. The inflatable ones fold down to the size of an Indian penis and they're far more comfortable on a long flight.

They're better than the best thing since sliced bread. From now on I'll be taking my new pillow everywhere even if it means slicing my own bread.

Why Do They Do That?

This post comes to you from sunnier climes. It's hot, it's humid and it's not Sri Lanka. I'll tell you more about it later.

But, sitting on the plane on the way here, I observed something that I've seen happen a few times recently that bugs me. It bugs me in a weird way, not a losing sleep kind of way but enough to make me ponder a bit. I've seen this happen two or three times on flights recently and it makes me want to smile, laugh and rant a little.

There I was, it was a long haul flight and I was deep in the heart of the economy section. Like the famous Whitesnake song, but that was called "Deep in the heart of the city". Someone said to me recently that the sign of a wealthy person is when they can afford to fly business class and pay for it out of their own pocket. Well that makes me a pauper, well and truly, perhaps quite rich in air miles, but they never got a chap anywhere did they?

You know how it is on a plane don't you? We all sit there and check out everyone else within our view. We all do it cunningly so that the other people don't realise we're doing it, except they do. but they pretend that they don't. Then they check us out and pretend that they're gazing past us, at the window and the view of darkness or maybe a cloud. And we pretend that we haven't noticed, unless it's an attractive girl, but they always sit in other parts of the plane anyway.

I was sitting there, reading Modern Drummer magazine, listening to my iPod and trying to shut out the annoying conversation between the Swede and the Kiwi that were sitting next to me. They were having a vague attempt at a drinking competition. Unless it was an elaborate set up they hadn't met until we all got on the flight but there was a strong smell of male ego as they "casually" chatted about how much they drank and how much they loved alcohol. They then proceeded to have one of those unacknowledged drinking competitions.

Swede and Kiwi matched each other drink for drink, each pretending that he was just behaving normally. I knew full well that neither Swedes nor Kiwis can behave normally, so I sat there and carried on with my air drumming and waiting for both of them to pass out. Sure enough they did, the Swede lasted four, maybe five seconds longer than the antipodean, but I think it would be fair to call it a draw. It's even fairer to say that I, representing Sri Lanka, played a tactical game and won.

While they were sleeping I noticed a biggish bloke about two rows in front of me but to my left. He must have been about fifty and was travelling with a woman who I assumed to be his wife. I assumed this because they just looked as if neither of them gave a hoot about their appearance. He had a paper clip holding the arm of his glasses to the main bit, that kind of thing. The thing I saw was him get annoyed, I mean really annoyed here, with the guy sitting in the seat in front of him.

He wasn't getting annoyed because the chap was farting at intervals of three seconds, he wasn't stewing because the guy was chucking bits of paper backwards and they were landing on the paperclipped bit of his glasses. No, he was going off on one because the chap, the horrible and nasty evil fellow in front of him, actually had the audacity to recline in his seat. He didn't say anything to him but he was miming to his wife that he wanted to give the evil recliner a smack in the chops, that ge wanted to push the seat forwards, that he hardly had room to move and all other miming activities.

It would have looked a lot better if he had been Marcel Marceu and was doing the whole stuck in a box or behind a window thing, that would have provided entertainment for many of us watching him, but it wasn't to be. Perhaps Mr, or Monsieur, Marceau used to practice by sitting on a plane stuck behind a reclining seat, I know not, but he was quite good at it anyway so maybe the need wasn't there.

I watched the idiot and just condescending thoughts towards him. We were travelling on a plane in economy class, it's no random coincidence that many people actually call it cattle class. The seats are actually designed and made to recline, that's what people do when they sleep, or do a vague impersonation of it, on a plane. Yes, if we really were cattle in a lorry, we probably would be entitled to about double the space that we're entitled to as Humans. But we're scum, we're just economy passengers and we should know our place.

So Mr Paperclipped glasses. If you read this I hope that you don't ever recline your own seat, I hope that the next flight you go on has someone in front of you who leans back as far as their seat will go.

Or pay for business class, where you'll get some champagne and a neighbour who's got an upgrade because he's got lots and lots of airmiles. He might even have my expired ones. I often wonder where they go.

A Little Update.

The 11 year old continues to test me. You know about her from reading the things I've already written, assuming you're a regular here. But, should you ever bump into us as we stroll around Colombo, or even London, please don't tell her that you know all this stuff. She'll only get proud and boastful and things will be even tougher.

I told you about the phone business here. And I think it's right that I give an update to all those who were interested.

On Friday evening I went to collect the girls fron their Mother's place for the fortnightly weekend, well Friday night, stay. I'm getting used to the regular "Why aren't you ready yet?" conversation, the awkwardness as I hang around in the corridor waiting for them and not knowing exactly how to behave. It used to be my house, it used to be my home, but now I'm a visitor of sorts.

There's always some post for me to collect and this time one of the envelopes had all the indications that showed it was a phone bill. I grabbed it, with some nervousness and some glee, as I explained to K that it was the bill that would show if she would have to give up her life savings of £162 or not. I had wondered why an 11 year old would have £162 as her savings, that £2 seems a strangely odd couple of nuggets. So I asked her.

"Because I had £160 of birthday and Christmas money and then I won £2 at cannasta against my Grandmother". She explained. Fair enough I thought.

I opened the bill, half expecting to see a figure several hundreds of pounds more than usual. K was hanging over my shoulder trying to see and I was trying to not let her see. Tension was everywhere and the atmosphere could have been cut with a large salami, maybe even a Pepperami, but not one of the spicy ones.

The total looked about normal and I scanned upwards to look at the itemisation bit for the calls. I found her dreaded call, the one at 7.45 AM made to her mobile number. And, as Ian S had suggested it looked as if the voicemail had hung up after a nice pleasant 4 minutes. This made me happy and my cunning and clever mind advanced to the next fatherly stage. The one that questioned whether I should tell K the truth or wind her up for a bit. I took the only viable option.

I made that face, the one when you purse your lips and make a straght mouth, trying to look glum and serious but smiling and laughing underneath. It's a face that all Dads are taught when we go to Dad school, one of the very first lessons, just after the one in which we're taught that no boy will ever be good enough for our daughters and that our dancing will always be impressive to the younger generation, they just won't admit it.

I showed her the bill, well I would have if she hadn't wrenched it from me. She looked at it and I told her that the 4.00 minutes bit actually said £400. It was no use though, she was onto me. She could smell my relief and, once an 11 year old detects that on you, you're a goner. Her face showed relief and bravado, a lethal mix. Off she waltzed to do the next bit of damage.

About an hour later we were sitting in my front room, she was on her laptop, doing MSN or whatever and her sister was lounging in my planter's chair and generally being sarcastic. I remembered a conversation earlier in the week with Academic Bro and sprang into action, like a spring, a drummer shaped one.

"K, we need to have a look and edit your profile on Facebook" I said.

You see Academic Bro had told me that both my daughters had FB accounts, which I was aware of. But the 13 year old's was relatively normal, talking about schoolgirl type of interests and interracting with ther friends. Her younger sibling however, had set her profile to say that she was interested in men and she'd ticked the box that showed she didn't want to disply her age. This worried me, for obvious reasons. It has made me think that I might actually cross over to the other side and get myself a FB account after all, that may be the only way I can keep an eye on the girls' shenanigans.

I explained the situation to K and she reacted with all the innocence of a Sri Lankan piano teacher. We looked at her profile and changed it so that it reflected her age and changed her interests to "friendship". This made me feel more relaxed. Not entirely comfortable with them being on FB but I also know that all their friends are and I don't want to be too strict. I just hope they don't get talked to by some weirdo, like Academic.

Job done. By now the profile's probably been changed back, but I did what I thought was right.

What else has been occurring?

Oh yes, I'm away for about a week from tomorrow, checking out sunnier climes. I've got a band practice tonight with the covers band and I'm seriously underpracticed. Damn.

And the biggest news is that I've taken delivery of my new black leather Converse All Star (cut offs). The All Star collection continues to grow.

See you in a week or so.

More On Darwin Stuff

I don't know how to do links on this MacBook thing that I love so much, but if I did, I'd chuck a link to Darwin's post. She edited it to make the point that she doesn't have a beef with everyday followers of Islam who don't speak out against violence and fundamentalists. Her beef is with Muslims who appear on TV and in the media, who are in a position to talk and be heard, and who don't.

Well I'm content with that and I think her point is valid, so I feel it's worth outlining in this post. It's a good thing that Muslims refrain from consuming pork, rather than beef, or Darwin's liberal use of the word "beef" may have caused an outrage. As things stand her blog may be swamped by fundamentalist Hindus with all kinds of threats. My money is on the famous parasitologist. We live and learn, I never knew there was that much to learn about parachutes, but now I do.

I won't close comments on my original post, but it wasn't my intention to start a debate about the publication of the cartoons, that was a side issue. If anyone wants to carry on with that one then feel free.

It's early, I'm going back to sleep.

Happy Sunday all.

Dear Darwin.....

I looked at my screen, I tried to read the words and not feel the anger I was feeling. It wasn't even anger with the person, more with the situation and the mindset, one that I've come up against in the last few years.

As a person with a mixed religious background I count myself lucky to be able to see things in a way that I think is more balanced than some. And this last post by Darwin stirred lots of things within me. Before I rant, rave and sound like a wanker let me explain the background. I like Darwin, I don't know her well but we occasionally correspond via email and I do hope we get to meet someday. I'm one of the billions who reads her blog regularly and it always makes me react.

Darwin's main point is that the cartoons, those infamous ones published in the Danish paper, or rather the furore about their publication, is just a storm in a teacup. As she says diplomatically:

"Bullshit. It's just a bit of ink on paper. Get over yourself."

My opinion is that I haven't come to an opinion on this. I think that the reaction from the more extreme side, those that have led and been involved in protests, is over the top. I fail to see that the cartoons are THAT offensive. But, it's a dangerous path to take when you mock a person's religion or faith. If you choose to do it, then you're plain naive if you expect no backlash whatsoever. A storm in a teacup? Yes, but a teacup filled with some kind of chemical combination that's likely to erupt any moment anyway.

It really was Darwin's PS that got my attention. Her sentence:

"Muslims who support - or refrain from condemning - this sort of behaviour share the responsibility for bringing dishonour and shame to their beloved religion, and for the rest of us thinking that it truly is a religion based on violence."

Is one that I couldn't agree with less. Responsibility for thinking that Islam is a religion based on violence must be held by the person or people who hold that opinion. During the troubles in Northern Ireland in the 70s and 80s I didn't go around thinking that catholics were violent terrorists if they didn't come out and condemn things.

There are many people, particularly here in the UK, who have limited experience of Islam and their only real exposure has been to read about bombers, fundamentalists and extreme viewpoints. They are the sort who will happily discriminate against Muslims in their thinking and behaviour. It's just crap thinking, if thinking even comes into the equation. It's fuelled by much of the media and by fear and it's perpetuated by ignorance and a lack of desire to understand.

I was in a meeting the other day and someone made a comment about Muslims that just showed his total lack of understanding, but more sadly it showed that he actually thinks all Muslims are extreme fundamentalists. The sort who pray 17 times a day, only eat lettuce and hate anyone who's white. It just makes me sad that people like this are happy to read the Sun and form their opinions without really being qualified to have a sensible one.

To be fair Darwin has explained things a bit further in the comments below her original post, but my point is still there somewhere;

Islam is not a religion based on violence. If anyone thinks that, that's their problem.

People are innocent until proven guilty. That includes Muslims.

How Do You Throw Away A Bin?

The dilemnas and learning experiences continue to fascinate and bewilder me.

When I moved into my house I had to buy stuff, house stuff. Stuff that people use to live in a house, like ironing boards, irons, soap and one of those wire grill things that go inside the grill pan. It was, and is, a daunting and exciting time. Just when I thought I'd done it all I realised that I'd never set up home alone before.

Run a company? Audition for a band? Be in a band? Get bullied by two daughters? Yes, I'd done the lot, the level of success is debatable but I had done them. Faced with a blank sheet of paper and a need to figure out what a fellow has to buy to start a home I was flying blind. It's one thing to go in a restaurant and choose from the menu but it's a different ball game when you have to decide on the meal without having options to choose from, then buy the ingredients and cook it all too.

So, to avoid confusion I'll summarise my metaphors and similes; I had a blank sheet of paper and I was flying blind, going into a restaurant and choosing from the menu is a different ball game. Wow, that really does sound like one of Dubya's better speeches doesn't it?

Back to the main plot though. I've now got most of the basics covered and life, or the shopping and buying part of it at least, is ten, perhaps eleven times easier. These days instead of going out and having to think of buying stuff from scratch I can go out and remember what I need and then figure out if I've got it in stock or not. Mostly, but there are still things I discover at times.

You get my drift, you know, instead of cooking something, realising that I need to add soya sauce, discovering that I have none and trying to remember to buy it next time now I know that soya sauce is an essential for me and all I have to do is to check whether I have it every now and again.

The best bit about my new found level of competence is that, now I've got the basics covered, I can go out and look for nicer things. I find it to be quite a lot of fun, suddenly coming across a nice pepper grinder or bumping into a bargain of a great lamp or whatever.

During the January sales I stumbled across one such example. It was one of those highly trendy stainless steel kitchen dustbins knocked down to half price and, being a man, I was sensible enough to buy just one. My understanding of women is remote and useless but I do know that one of the laws of the sexes is that a woman, on seeing an item reduced to half price, promptly buys two or more of the things. The proverbial law of averages, that one that doesn't exist but gets quoted all the time, then steps in and decides that us men, on seeing something reduced to half price, either buy one of them or none at all. Thus it all balances out and, on average, men and women buy exactly one of the half price things.

I'd bought this highly trendy touch to open Brabantia bin and was very pleased with it. I took it home and set it up in the kitchen, as one does. I even bought the "special" Brabantia bin bags. They cost about a million times the price of normal white bin bags and they come in special packaging. I don't fall for all this marketing hype though.

The problem then cropped up. I'd bought a relatively cheap stainless steel bin when I moved in, a pedal one with average features. Had I been the owner of a Colombo 7 house this bin would have been the sort I'd happily keep in the servants' kitchen. They'd use it and the odd passer by might see it and think it was acceptable. But I'd never put it in the fancy kitchen, that front part that only ever gets used when my wife makes pineapple fluff or chocolate biscuit pudding. No sir, that would be where I'd proudly display the Brabantia. To remain strictly true to my roots I'd probably cover the thing in cling film as well.

But here in Teddington I have a mere one kitchen and it's even smaller than my bass drum. It's so small that I can't even cook a cat in it, let alone swing one. And it's definitely not big enough for two kitchen bins. I can only thank my lucky stars that I don't own a cat as well, that would be disastrous.

You can see the seriousness of the situation. I've got no servants' kitchen in which to put the old bin, I've hardly got enough space to move in and now there's a bin surplus. A similar thing happened about a while ago, when I was still with the ex, but my parents needed a new bin and took the spare one happily. But I don't think a kitchen dustbin (nearly new) is the sort of thing one can give to a random friend anyway.

The binmen in my area are a strange breed, with laws, rules and regulations that no one, particularly them, actually understands. The borough started its new recycling thing recently, with all kinds of mailshots and advertising telling all of us lowly residents exactly what we should do and what to expect. It looked simple and easy, as well as good for the environment; basically put all our recycleable stuff in a white bag, which had been supplied to us, and it would be collected on the allotted day. The allotted day is Thursday, but I shouldn't think you care about that, I just thought I'd supply the information for the sake of clarity. But the bastards nicked my bag and I haven't seen it since.

One thing I know with absolute certainty is that my binmen will not even think of taking away the old bin. It's ironic for sure. Binmen who won't take a bin are a bit like pilots who refuse to actually fly or priests who don't believe in God. The old unwanted bin currently languishes in my back garden, like a sad stainless steel bin, in a garden, almost identical to one.

I'm left perplexed. How do I throw away an old bin?


Vut too doo?

Sri Lanka Versus The UK

There's been some newsy talk here in recent days about Derek Conway, a conservative MP, who has been caught "misusing parliamentary funds". It would appear that he has been paying his son, and there's strong conjecture that he has also done this with another son, a total salary of over £50,000 for work that he didn't do.

It's the sort of thing that business people do all the time here. The old "put your wife on payroll to avoid paying tax" concept is one thing but it seems that this chap has pretended that his sons work for him to actually get money that he wasn't otherwise entitled to.

Pretty shit behaviour really but he got caught, he's been stripped of the Conservative whip, which does sound like an old fashioned surgical procedure but isn't, and he's been reported to Scotland Yard so may well be in very big doo doo. I approve of whatever punishment the chap gets, although I might not if he gets the death sentence. The latest development is that he's been banned from the House Of Commons for ten days, which most people here think is far too light a punishment. In fact, after a bit of reflection, I think it's more than pretty shit behaviour, it's appalling and shouldn't be tolerated in any form.

It's like fiddling expenses; most people do it or have done it at some point, but usually you get sacked if you get caught. I just don't expect that sort of thing from an MP.

As I caught soundbites and glimpses of this story I couldn't help thinking of the contrast between Britain and Sri Lanka. I don't mean this post to be a strong torrent of ways in which Britain is "better" than Sri Lanka, nor even the other way round. Few people would disagree that Sri Lanka wins on many points; food, climate, landscape, friendliness, ease of hailing a trishaw and inflation of course.

Sri Lanka also wins hands down on the issues of lawlessness and the behaviour of her MPs.

Some relatively unknown MP here gets caught trying to claim money under false pretences and he gets the book thrown at him, as well as the whip withdrawn. Meanwhile, over in Sri Lanka, we have MPs doing all sorts of things with TV stations and High Commissions and they remain in their positions with the full backing of the President.

But the whole thing about corruption in Sri Lanka is a strange issue. Perhaps it's not corruption as much as favours and connections. There are so many times that I've taken advantage of a family connection or friendship, when I've behaved in a way that I wouldn't even contemplate here in the UK.

I remember being introduced to a high ranking Policeman or whatever the title was when I was a teenager. I was told by my parents that I should contact him if I ever got into any trouble with the Police. This was in front of the friendly Mr Plod and he was in full agreement. Totally normal behaviour for Sri Lanka but it would have been morally dodgy had it taken place in the UK, the kind of conversation that could ruin someone's career.

You know what? I'll take the Sri Lankan food, the climate and the landscape any day over the British offerings. I'll even agree with anyone who says that British lawmaking and policing can do with some improvements. But I have faith in the authorities here, with conditions, but faith nonetheless.

I reckon my opinion would be shared by most people living here.

It's a HUGE difference.

But is it right for me, you and almost everyone to complain about the bad aspects of Sri Lanka's authority and workings when we're more than happy to take advantage of it when it suits us?

Rules Of Lovemaking

After extensive research, incurring considerable cost in both time and money I've come up with the definitive explanation of making love. It's clearly a complicated business and I'm learning all the time but the basics are:

1. iPod - At least one party must be listening to music on an iPod
   
   
2. Frilled and fancied up - The woman must be wearing garments of that description. I'm unsure what garments qualify but I reckon things like net curtains should do the trick. Parthi said this and he strikes me as a man who knows.
   
   
3. PM tells us that there should be feelings of comfort, plenty of laughter and cooing involved as well as relaxed messing around. A good session in a comfortable armchair with a comedian who does pigeon impersonations should do the job. If the comedian is a bit stoned that would be handy too.
   
   
4. McBoom tells us that there should be kissing involved. My hunch is that he means proper kissing, not the Sri Lankan cheek sniffing business, which should only be used on Aunts.
   
   
5. Darwin says it's cheesy, PM says it's not. Bea says that the main difference is the cheese factor and a Barry White track. One thing's for sure, cheese is important to some of these women. Boys, I would advise you to take some cheese on your next date. Perhaps a good pungent brie or a nice stilton, it's best not to ruin things by turning up with a couple of Dairylea triangles.
   
   
6. Anonymous asks about "Empirical confusion". Sadly I was never a Star Wars fan so I can't even come up with something remotely witty about this.
   
   
7. Themissingsandwich tells us some girly stuff about stirring loins and souls, I didn't understand it either.
   
   
8. David Blacker gives us a vital bit of information; that it's about the time of day. He doesn't tell us what time of day means sex time and what is making love time, so my advice to any ladies hanging around outside his gaff is to check your appointment time carefully before you sit in the waiting room.
   
   
9. Anonymous replies kindly to tell us that it's about bangers and mash and a 5 course meal. I'm partial to bangers and mash so I'm left none the wiser here. Food is the word.
   

And there we have it, the ultimate guide. To refresh you, the key ingredients are food, lots of cheese, an iPod, the woman to wear net curtains, a stoned comedian who does pigeon impersonations and an armchair.

Easy.

Oh, and for fuck's sake stick a Barry White album on and don't kiss like a Sri Lankan Aunt.

Making Love Or Having Sex?

What's the difference?