Just Gay Enough?

Down the end of my road is a little parade of shops. It houses all the staples of the traditional English small shopping parade. There's a couple of Indian "open all hours selling anything you want at high prices" shops, there's an old fashioned barber, there's a greasy cafe (highly recommended), an off licence, a pet shop, a dry cleaners and a few others. Also there's a disproportionate number of fast food places. We have two Indian restaurants, one kebab and burger shop, one pizza place, one Chinese restaurant, one fish and chip shop and a greasy cafe. I kid you not. There's also a florist.

The florist is the unashamed star of today's post, though I'd put money on the fact that none of the people in it actually read my blog, so will probably never be aware of the situation. It's an unusual looking place, reminding me more or the sort of shop that one would see in Paris than West London. I have to walk past it to get to the "open all hours" shops and it spreads an atmosphere of flowery sunshine.

The whole front of the shop is open to the elements with one of those big sliding partition doors that they only close when the shop is closed. So, when you walk past it feels as if you're walking through the the place, not past it. It's a decently stocked florist too. That two second glance as I stroll past fills my vision with splashes of bright colour, of reds, oranges, yellows and greens. My nose stocks up with that naturey smell, the one that reminds me of summer and nice things until the hayfever kicks in.

The more I gaze at it the more I deliberate and ponder on the issue, that delicate one, that one of men buying flowers. More accurately that one of men buying flowers for themselves. It might be that I've been lured by the clever displays and the smart marketing. It could be that I've been reading too many "Men's" magazines, telling me how to be the perfect metrosexual, in touch with my feminine side and proud of it.

It's all about this living on my own business. I know there are many men who buy flowers and probably read Darwin's recipes and copy them at the weekend but I'm not used to this behaviour. Even if I did buy flowers I don't have a vase, or a vase as you Americans say.

If I go out and buy a vase then I'd simply have to buy flowers to put in it. So there'd be no decision to make. But, if I don't buy a vase, then buying flowers will be pointless. Unless I bung them in a pint glass, or perhaps hang individual flowers off parts of my practice drum kit.

The temptation to walk into the florists and just look around is growing. But even that fills my mind with problems. It's okay to browse in a clothes shop, a bookshop or the local branch of Toys R Us. But, when the kind flower lady asks if she can help me and I tell her that I'm "just looking" she'll probably press that button that connects straight to the Police station, the one that's labelled "weirdo alert". Then I'll have to buy some flowers just to prove my innocence, making some idle chit chat about buying them for my wife or mother.

Then, as I walk out of the shop as the proud owner of a bunch of flowers she'll turn to her colleague and say

"These gay blokes pretending to be straight make me laugh with all their wife and mother stuff"

And I'm cool about gayness anyway. Some time ago someone told me I was "just gay enough" or "JGE". Apparently that's a good thing, I didn't know as it was a new term to me. I do use moisturiser on my face every day and I often drink gin and tonic. (slimline too)

You can see the situation developing here. As time ticks on I know I'll end up buying some flowers, perhaps falling short at buying myself a dozen red roses. Then, self consciously, I'll take them home and put them on display in my newly acquired man's vase. The vase will be as macho as a vase can be, ideally made by JCB and chiselled from rock and steel, without a feminine curve anywhere near it. If a vase could have stubble then my one would.

The flower shop girls, not to be confused with the pet shop boys, will think I'm a raving metrosexual. The neighbours will give me knowing glances. My daughters will think I've totally lost it. Academic bro will think I'm perfectly normal and not have the slightest idea what my fear was in the first place. My Dad, like any good Sri Lankan Dad, will think I have gone gay and that must have been why my marriage ended in divorce. My Mum will then spend some months trying to persuade my Dad that I haven't and that he shouldn't ignore me for the rest of his life.

Yet, after all this clever and intelligent reasoning I'm none the wiser. What is the definitive opinion on a chap buying flowers for himself?

Do I do it or should I continue to walk past the quaint little flower shop with that sulky look on my face?

The Sleepover Report

You're likely to be aware that I had ended up as the the slightly reluctant but mostly nervous host of a sleepover at my place for K, my eleven year old, and A2, her friend. I'll call her A2 so that you don't confuse her with A, my fourteen year old. A3 doesn't work because you think I'm talking about an Audi, even more confusing as A2 is also German.

Friday's departure from work took me straight to collect the brace of eleven year olds from K's place. I did not pass go and I sure as hell didn't collect £200. I had probably spent close to that on a bag or two of chocolate flavoured goodies for them though.

Now I'm about average height for a Sri Lankan male, roughly three feet tall, which means that I've got quite used to most white people towering over me. I met A2 for the first time and looked upwards towards that area where you see planes, clouds and planets. Somewhere above there I saw her head. I shouted "hello" and did the polite Dad thing. K, looking a bit wary and sounding a tad nervous said

"Dad, I've told all my friends about it but you're not going to do the dancing in your pants thing are you?"

I assured her that it wasn't on the cards and that I'd behave, feeling uncomfortable but also proud that my underpants dance is rapidly becoming quite well known. Not as legendary as the whole twig in Naz Sansoni's navel episode but it's getting there. We loaded up the stuff into my car and set off. As usual I wondered and marvelled at the ability of you girls, even eleven year old ones, to pack the entire contents of a small town for a mere one night stay.

K was wearing her usual casual gear. These days it's a pair of skinny jeans, Converse All Stars, her My Chemical Romance T shirt and her My Chemical Romance hoodie over that. A2 had on some similar looking garb and I rather cleverly guessed that she was into the same sort of music and things. K had of course brought a CD for the four minute car journey and I was asked to play it. I say "asked" to give you an impression that I had some choice in the matter. Of course the reality is that I didn't, but you knew that anyway.

We drove for a while with an early MCR track blasting out through the speakers and all of us quite content. Then I became vaguely aware of some sort of grunting noise from the back. I turned the music down and asked for a repeat of the noise. A2 said

"I like your car"

Cool, I thought, though I'm fortunate to have a nice car and it does get a few compliments.

"It's much tidier than my car" she continued.

It struck me as a strange thing to say for an eleven year old, the whole "my car" bit. I hoped she wasn't one of those spoilt types who, at eleven, already owned a car, perhaps one that she drove on the farm at weekends or something. I developed a cunning line of enquiry that I thought would answer my questions.

"What kind of car is yours?" I asked

"It's a Zafira" she said.

I was happy and not just because I have several cousins called Zafira. It was also because I know that a Zafira is one of those dodgy Vauxhall MPV things. A middle aged person's car, one built for carrying lots of kids and camping gear. It's not a rock 'n' roll cool Dad's car. Not that I'm competitive or anything, but I think I was winning on the cool Dad issue. One for Sri Lanka, nil for Germany. Things looked good.

As we pulled up at my house they spotted a friend of theirs walking along the road. We got out of the car, they asked if they could go to the chip shop with P, the friend, I replied in the affirmative and off they trotted. Ten minutes later they returned with chips and friend. They marched up to K's and A's bedroom, sent a request down to me for tomato ketchup and brown sauce and they were happy for about half an hour. After that the friend left and K and A2 were hungry. Pizzas had been ordered and we steamed into those as soon as they arrived.

Now, in my small one TV and one sitting roomed house there isn't much space for doing your own thing without treading on each other's toes. So after dinner they wanted to watch a film and I left them to it. I went up to my room, feeling like I was a teenager leaving my parents to watch TV while I went up to do my homework, or pretend to. Every half hour I checked on them and would find more chocolate wrappers strewn around the floor and more remnants of things scattered around but all were happy. At some point I got a phone call on my mobile from
A2's mother.

It was a bit weird, she asked me if she could speak to her to say goodnight and then had a conversation in which she was very obviously asking her daughter about me, my house and whether I was ok, not deranged or something. I felt sorry for A2 and pleased that I hadn't done the underpants dance. I heard A2 say things like

"Yes he's very nice"

"Yes it's fine"

all in slightly awkward tones.

At around eleven the film finished and I sent them off to bed. I had expected several hours of them messing around and me telling them to go to sleep but fortunately this didn't materialise. With minutes of them turning out the light they were fast asleep and I had the prospect of waking them at 8AM to look forward to. Why? Because A2 had to go somewhere so was being collected at 8.45 AM. Old Mrs A2 had said to me on the phone that she was sure I'd be up at that time but I'd have to wake the girls up early.

I think you know what sort of words were actually going through my head. Ones like

"Fuckinell, I've got to fucking getting up at fucking bloody 8 on a fucking Saturday just to fucking wake up your fucking bloody daughter because she has to go trampolining or something."

What came out of my mouth were words that were just slightly different. Ones like

"Oh yes, ha ha ha, I'm sure it will be no problem, I'm usually up pretty early on a Saturday morning anyway."

I stumbled out of bed at the allotted time, made my toilet, then sat on it and did a poo. Then I showered, changed and knocked on their door to wake the girls. They were already up and on the laptop. Apparently the internet opens early on Saturdays, I guess it's probably run by Germans.

There was some frantic doing of make up and hair and things, then they were ready and we waited for the arrival of the parent. With the punctuality one would expect from a German the doorbell rang at roughly 8.45 and zero seconds. I opened it and tried not to choke, laugh or stare, in that way you try not to stare at a person with twelve toes and maybe a couple of extra arms.

There are three requirements for a woman to look good in skintight lycra clothing. They must have the body of an important female character from a Baywatch episode, they must have the looks of a Ferrari and of course they must have the skin tight lycra clothes.

As I opened the door and did the polite introduction bit I saw immediately that Old Mrs A2 wasn't exactly knocking on Pamela Anderson's door. In fact she'd probably fail in the audition for one of Tommy Lee's home videos let alone for an episode of Baywatch. She looked more like the Zafira she drove than a Ferrari, even one of the less attractive ones. I also noticed that she DID have a surplus of skintight lycra gear and that she was wearing it all in one go. Perhaps it was national wear all the lycra gear you can get your hands on day and I just didn't know about it.

Surely there must be a law about people like that wearing that type of outfit at such an early hour of the day, particularly a Saturday. I didn't know where to look and, when she apologised for the clothing, saying some line about going running or something, all I could do was say that it was ok and that lots of women dressed liked that for me. She laughed, I laughed and I tried to ascertain exactly why I had said such a thing. It must have been the combination of the pressure and my incredible wit.

She then made some half baked comment about the state of my front garden, along the lines of "I like your gardening skills", or something similarly sarcastic. Now my front garden is a total state these days but I've got a fellow coming out on Thursday to take care of it and I felt a bit aggrieved at Old Mrs A2's comment, it wasn't as if we were old friends or cousins or something and, being the archetypal Sri Lankan gent, I had calmly decided not to remark on the tightness of her lycra around the crotch area, tempted as I had been.

No, a less cultured fellow would have said something like

"Nice fanny, that lycra doesn't leave much to the imagination does it, have you thought about a Brazilian?"

But I kept my calm and composure despite her quite vicious and brazen attack on my gardening skills and of that I'm sure you're proud. She carted off her daughter after forcing her to say thank you. Me and K were left alone at this unearthly hour. We decided, or rather I decided, that we'd go the the local greasy cafe for breakfast. As we ambled to the cafe happily in our own respective worlds we spotted Mrs A2 jogging up the road. We laughed and headed to the cafe for our fry ups.

And that's the sleepover report.

Have a great week out there!

Lately In The Sri Lankan Blogosphere...

Things have been a bit quiet out there lately. Why is this? Maybe there's been an abundance of Poya days and public holidays in Lanka. Perhaps it's the end of year and all of you student types are busy doing exams and cramming. I don't know. But it has been evident and I'm disappointed about it.

But, through the scarcity and the lack of good chunky and interesting posts there shineth some gems, some interesting titbits and some juicy gossip, some poetic pieces and some alliterative altercations.

On my ventures into blogging pastures new I came across a new gem of a Sri Lankan blog. It's called Lost Landscape and you can find it by clicking on the title, a few words ago. His first post caught my attention, in all honesty because my blog was referenced in it, but when I read it I was instantly captivated. Here's a young Tamil chap who appears to be willing to put his balls on the line, a phrase I use with some trepidation as he's also openly gay. Accusations of cheap attempts at humour using innuendo could fly at me quicker than warrior bees attacking German tourists at Sigiriya after they've thrown sticks at the hives.

But his writing is informed, even if you disagree with his opinions. His language is rather musical, not like mine may be when I talk about drums and stuff either. There's a lilt and a poeticness to his words that literally excites me as I read them. And that comes from a chap who's just used the word "poeticness", which I suspect doesn't even exist. I urge you to check it out.

The Right Honourable Lord Cerno continues to enthral and excite us. His interesting post on illegal street racing in Colombo has attracted a lot of attention and comments. The videos he has attached are a bit uneventful though, they just look like everyday street driving in CMB to me, albeit a tad slower and safer than some things we've all seen. For some really dangerous Colombo street stuff have a look at this.

While we're on the subject of the blogger formerly known as the 1 truecoolguy let's touch on what he's been up. Mostly going to lesbian weddings, wishing for a Kazakhstani bride and introducing the happy couple to lethal cocktails. Read all about it here. I'm full of admiration and envy. I've never been to a lesbian wedding before, in fact I'm not even sure where Lesbia is. I think it's somewhere in North Africa.

Up in the towers of academia our favourite domestic goddess has been suprising her readership. First there were recipes and then there came this post. If it was an episode of Friends it would be called "The one with the flower pictures". Darwin's definitely a girl and occasionally she can't help but reveal her feminine side!

The Gutterflower has made it into the realms of stardom and the higher eschelons of the SL blogosphere. Yes, I added her blog into my links. It will bring her at least two extra views every month and I'm sure she now feels as if her life is complete. I agree with most who suggested I add her blog to my links. She's one of these fellows who can write, one who bungs words onto a screen via a keyboard and, when you read the words, you experience certain emotions and feelings.

Scandal and fun seems to be the order of the day in the Sri Lankan ad industry as Brandon uses his blog to defend something that seems to have been going on, or not going on, or whatever. I often have this feeling when reading the blog of a person who's a good few years younger than me. It's a feeling of

"mmm I wonder if they'll really regret putting that post out on a blog in years to come."

Maybe they won't, maybe they'll be cool with it. I wonder though.

Over in theatrical circles there's another debate kicking off nicely. Tracy Holsinger has written an open letter to the editor of the Sunday Observer Magazine. I've been watching the scenario with interest and it opens up all sorts of debates in my mind. Things about reviews, whether reviewers have a responsibility to get their facts right, whether there is anything positive about negative criticism and a whole manner of ruminations on the goldfish bowl aspect of Colombo society.

Indi has put up this one about the benefit concert at Barefoot for Mo. I know I'm not the first and I know I won't be the last to wish him all the best. I only met him a few years ago for the first time but I know he's such an integral part of the general ambience at Barefoot and liked muchly by all.

This post by Janusis caught my eye, made me smile and made me laugh. The nail has been hit firmly on the head. This discrimination and unfairness against the slightly older and fatter TVs must stop at once. They're as good as flat screens and they're real TVs with real screens and cathode ray tubes and wires too.

Ravana, who surely must be the least anonymous anonymous blogger in the Sri Lankan blogosphere, perhaps only second to Electra who rarely posts these days, has chucked out a nifty chunk on patriotism, or false patriotism. I've got a far less, erm what's the word, ah yes, a far less eloquent post that touches on the subject sitting in my drafts somewhere and I may retrieve it and brush off the dust and whack it out at some point. If you do head over to Ravana's post make sure to read the comments, they're an integral part of the beauty of it.

I'll leave you and sign off with the following gem. Java emailed it to me and it's excited me tremendously, which admittedly isn't too hard. My excitement is multipled by fact that I now know how to embed a youtube video into my blog. You've been warned. Happy times!

RD

Wish Me Luck

Why?

Because tonight, were you to creep into my back garden and peer through the windows of my house, you'd witness a first, one that's making me tremble like a chocolate biscuit pudding on the back seat of a Sri Lankan bus.

A, the 14 year old, has got her birthday party. It means that she's off into the wilds of Kingston with a gang of her friends. Then, some of those friends will get taken back to her and her Mother's place and they'll stay the night and do whatever it is you girls do on sleepovers. It means that I miss out on my fortnightly overnight visit from A but that's ok, it's her birthday party and I'm relaxed and cool about it.

What it does mean is that K, the 11 year old who needs little introduction these days, is coming round to mine for the overnight stop. But it's not just her. It only life were that simple. No, there's a friend of some kind coming too.

You can imagine my trepidation. Two of them. In my house. The days of a big house in which they could have been left to wander are long gone. I can't leave them in a room with a TV and a DVD player, some food and drink and check in on them every five hours or so like any good parent would normally do. No, my small house won't permit that. I'll have to entertain them and mix with them.

I'll have to try to maintain my "cool Dad" status. Letting the friend have a go on my drumkit may help me in that avenue. There's always the option of playing something on the drums myself to keep my street cred up too. It doesn't have to be anything complicated, just playing something by a band they like should do the trick.

K has already expressed some concern that I'll embarrass her. She said this on Wednesday when I was doing the underpants dance to her and A. You know, that one that involves wearing just pants (pink striped ones available from Odel) and flip flops. Why she thinks my behaviour might be a cause of embarrassment is beyond me.

I figure that a cupboard load of chocolate and chocolate related biscuit things, lots of Diet Coke and pizzas will be useful. Snack things for the night and lots of whisky for me may come in handy. Suppose I better wash the towels and maybe a bit of silent farting around the house practice would be useful.

So wish me luck. I'll let you know how it goes next week. For now I'm concentrating on survival.

Alternate Realities (The Simplified Version)

Java's post about realities, like so many of his very delicious bits of writing, got me both thinking and downright confused.

I'm a simple fellow and many of Java's more complex posts are beyond me. Think Britney Spears and nuclear physics and you'll get the picture. But reality is a topic I find quite interesting. It's all about perspective, judgement and each person's mentality. Over the years I've come to look at the subject with what I consider a pretty all rounded viewpoint, which is my reality and you may disagree with of course.

Up until only relatively recently I had a very different attitude to these things. I say relatively because it's all relative isn't it. I'm talking about a few years' ago, which to me is relatively recently, but for an ant, particularly one of those flying ants that only live for a day, a few years' is a long time. Or to a goldfish, because they have the memory of my Dad.

I used to wonder how on Earth I could look at the bare facts involved in a situation, the plain and objective facts, those that are indisputable, like so and so said "you've got brown hair" and come to a conclusion or view that may be different to that of another person. I'd think that it was so clear that we were both looking at the same data and therefore it was unbelievable that the other fellow could be so wrong.

That's when the alternate reality theory started to apply in my thinking. I realised, after many years of frustration, that it's possible, or actually probable, that two people can look at the same facts, figures and data and come to two very different conclusions. Simply because they have different brains and different ways of thinking. I'm not you, you're not me. Unless I'm reading this back to myself before publishing it.

The brain is a hugely complex piece of kit, like an iPod but one of the larger memory ones with video and all, obviously not as advanced but close. And all of us have different models. We've got different experiences, education and influences. It's rarely the case that I'm right and you're wrong, more that we're both right but we take different views on the same thing.

Confab's post here touches on the subject too. It's all about choices and opinions, the mindset of each individual rather than a collective mindset in which we all agree with each other. There are things that most people agree on, there are certain values that many wouldn't argue with. But outside of those norms it's all down to opinion and differing views.

It's so easy to give someone advice when you're not the person actually experiencing the feelings that the unfortunate recipient of your advice is going through. We (the agony Uncle) can look at things nice and objectively and dispassionately, we can weigh up cold hard facts and nice clear figures and we can tell someone what they should do with a sense of confidence and righteousness.

But we don't have their feelings inside our head. Our brain isn't the one actually going through that situation, our emotions and feelings are all different, except when they're the same.

And, after quite a few years, I've come to realise the massive and ginormous power of acceptance. My Grandmother used to have that old pearl of wisdom framed on her side table:

"God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change..."

Isn't that a nice way to look at things?

Acceptance is a wonderful thing.

Together We Can Stop This Cruelty

As bloggers sometimes we have a responsibility to bring attention to an act of cruelty, something that bothers us, that we want to change.

Some fellows talk about cruelty to dogs, some highlight the plight of dolphins in nets used to catch tuna fish. Others talk about the ways in which some animals are used for lab experiments and other talk about the cruelty inflicted upon foreigners by Darwin.

Different folks eat different things around the world, I think that's acceptable and understood by all. But, whilst in Singapore last week, I came across something that made me feel ashamed and a little queasy. They like their fat on meat over there, they're keen on dishes with "lard" in the name and they have items on menus that just sound wrong to me. I saw a menu with "glutinous chocolate rice" listed. Luckily there was a picture and I saw that it was what I would have called "chocolate rice pudding".

The thing, the outrageous one, the one that has made me feel sympathy and pain for the poor creatures involved in this frankly barbaric dish, must be banned. If I knew how to start an online petition and put a link to it in this post I'd do it. If my Dad was an MP I'd ask him to put in a word to the Prime Minister. That's in the UK, in Sri Lanka I'd use his status to allow me to do anything I wanted in nightclubs.

It's one thing for some countries to kill dogs and eat them, it's one thing for people to refuse to eat factory reared chicken because of the conditions the birds are kept in, that's all well and good. But how come no one has spotted the intense pain and cruelty that surely must be involved in what I saw brazenly being served to anyone who wanted it?

My understanding is that it's perfectly legal in Singapore, I saw a few stalls openly advertising and selling the stuff in hawker markets without the slightest hint of embarrassment or shame. These people are profittering from cruelty and must be brought to justice.

Yes, it's fish ball soup. As I write this I think of those poor fish being led to the ball cutting off place. I bet they're not even blindfolded when it's done. It's the ultimate cruelty, to deprive fish of their manhood like that. No wonder you never see a fish swimming along happily with its bollocks dangling freely. They've all been chopped off and made into soup or added to noodles.

I saw these fish balls for sale and it dawned on my why I've never seen a couple of fish mating, I've never received an email of fish porn and I've heard stories about cod and other fish becoming scarce.

So I respectfully ask all of you to join my campaign to stop this hideous and despicable treatment of fish. We can get together, organise marches and send petitions to people in power. Maybe a concert would be a good idea to raise awareness and highlight the issue. Perhaps a photo spread in Hi! magazine with some famous fish. An "at home with the fish" feature would be nice.

Hopefully it's not too late and we can save the fish. but, in the meantime please stay away from fish ball soup, noodles with fish balls and any other variants. Of course Sri Lankan fish balls, the fried type with chillie and maldive fish, are fine. But they're lovely, we all know that.

The Explosion At Rhythmic Towers

I'm back in London after a rather nice flight on the fourth Singapore Airlines A380. I'll tell you more about the aircraft later, after I manage to upload the photos I took. I was one of about five people in my section of the plane who were taking pictures and frankly I don't know whether I'm proud or ashamed to be part of that little club.

Arrival back in London was planned to coincide with my eldest's fourteenth birthday. No longer will she be known as "A, my 13 year old", from now on she will be formally known as "A, my 14 year old". There was some present buying, some lunching and some taking her to see her paternal grandparents to be done. It was all nice, all very jolly and all very " God I can't believe she's 14 already!"

Like any good Sri Lankan after some time away from home, wherever home is, I was pining for a good rice and curry upon my return. A proper Sri Lankan rice and curry, not one of the Indian imitations mind. My options were simple; I could have made a phone call to a random Sri Lankan in London and cadged an invite for dinner, I could have carted myself off to one of the few Sri Lankan restaurants or I could have cooked myself a veritable feast.

My preferred option was the latter. It was a relaxed option and one that didn't involve social niceties and the thought of driving somewhere and getting tired and having to make conversation. These are the things a fellow thinks about when living alone. Had you crept into my back garden and peered through my kitchen window at about 6.30 on Sunday night you would have seen me doing all those familiar things; cutting onions, frying them with mustard seed, garlic and curry leaves, then adding my chicken and exactly seventeen times the recommended daily allowance of salt, as any half decent Sri Lankan recipe requires.

After doing all that and getting my chicken curry just right I started on the rice, pretty straightforward with a rice cooker these days. I washed it, added more salt and was just about to plug in the rice cooker and turn it on. Now you know me as a fearless fellow, a kind of cross between Brad Pitt, George Clooney and Walker, Texas Ranger. But, and I know you'll be suprised at this, I am scared of two things in life; women and electricity, both for the same reason; that I don't understand them.

If ever I was confronted by a female police officer brandishing one of those Tazer guns I'd let her do whatever she wanted to do to me, no hesitation and no problems, I'd be putty in her hands. When I see an electrician working away on wires I'm instantly filled with a sense of respect and admiration rather like a kid on a tricycle would watch a motorcycle stunt team.

The rice cooker was ready to go. I plugged it in and turned on the power at the plug socket. All was looking good. I went to flick on the switch on the rice cooker itself. At this point I had no idea of the disaster that was about to fall upon me, of the sheer magnitude and the emotional turmoil it would cause, of the way I'd have to fight through the crisis and push through the other side.

I casually flicked the on switch and "BANG" was the sound I heard. It happened instantly and my reaction was as quick and as sharp, like a finely tuned instrument or a leopard waiting for its prey. I jumped backwards, almost falling over the Brabantia bin and, with all the bravery you'd expect from a man of my measure I went:

"Aaaaargh".

It was a carefully thought out phrase, many would have thought it sounded like a scream, but it was carefully designed to scare an enemy and reduce him to a mere trembling heap. Miraculously it all happened so quickly that I hardly had time to think, my reactions were instant and it was over in the blink of an eye. I must have been unconscious for exactly twenty four hours for when I came to I saw that none of the clocks had changed, it was as if time had stood still and I was still hungry.

There was a smell of electrical burning and chicken curry. I realised that this was caused by electrical burning and chicken curry. My predicament was big, but my appetite was bigger. I was faced with a fresh pan of curry and a broken rice cooker. Like a fox that's professor of cunning at Oxford University I thought through my possible courses of action. There was one in which I used one of the many microwave packets of rice I have in stock, mostly for K. Another involved getting some rice from the Indian takeaway at the end of my road and the final one, the one that I eventually went with, was to use one of the two spare rice cookers I had in the cupboard.

I don't want you to think I'm spoilt here. I'm well aware that I'm one of the luckier ones, that there are some people in the world who might only have one rice cooker, but this was still a testing time for me. You see both of my spare rice cookers are those ones that always seem to burn the rice at the bottom, an annoying scenario indeed. I opted for the silver one, as it matched the decor, and I started again. When I got to switch flicking time I felt a bit nervous but more like a chap who has fallen of a horse and is keen to jump straight back in the saddle. I've never been on a horse let alone fallen off one but I've heard it's easy.

This time though, as I flicked the switch, there was nothing at all. No bang, no burning and no sign of any electrical looking lights. Things weren't good and I was getting hungrier and grumpier by the second. I ventured into the cupboard under the stairs and found a fusey looking thing that was in the off position. I turned it on, went back to the rice cooker and approached it again. This time all went smoothly. Twenty minutes later I was tucking into the rice and curry as I had planned.

My nerves had been shattered by the whole experience and I could only eat four or five helpings. The turmoil of losing a favourite rice cooker is great and weighs heavily on the mind. You'll be pleased to know that it looks like it may pull through after all. After some hours of surgery I've got it to a level in which it can cook rice but won't keep it warm once cooked. Or at least the keep warm light may not be working. It's not ideal but I might be able to work around this.

Luckily the episode hasn't put me off rice and curry. Unluckily I'm still shit scared of electricity, possibly a little bit more than I was before the explosion. Even now, as I think of it, I feel my heart speed up and a few beads of sweat on my forehead.

It's tough being a man!

Checking In

A quickie from Changi Airport. The free wireless isn't without strings but I'm about to board an A380 to go back to London.

How cool is that?

But Is It Art?

Java forwarded me the petition about this sickening and despicable "thing". I must admit that I'm neither a dog or an art lover but I cannot find anything in my brain, either the left side or the right side, to justify why someone would put an animal through this.

As far as I'm concerned it doesn't "highlight the plight of stray dogs" and it doesn't do anything other than get the "artist" some cheap publicity.

There's little excuse for this sort of behaviour and there are very few who would disagree with me on that.

Over the years I've pondered on the question and issue of what is art and what isn't. I've seen many a painting, photograph or other piece that has made me wonder about the definition of art. I'm sure if I were to look up the word in a dictionary I'd easily get myself a proper explanation, proper in the way that these things can be.

I've come to my own conclusion on the subject. Which is, that if we talk about it, if we think about it and if it interests us, either in a negative or positive way, then it IS art. I like, no I love music, and in the same vein for me there is no such thing as bad music. There's lots of music I don't like, there's lots that I do like, but it's all music nevertheless, even dodgy stuff like OK Computer.

For me, the objective of art is to get our attention and to gain our interest, to stimulate the mind and to make people stop and stare. But it's entirely subjective too. Tracey Emin can put her bed on display as a work of art and people will pay good money to go and see it and stare at it for hours on end. My bed is in a similar state to hers. There's less fag butts as I don't smoke, there's less womens' clothing but I beat Tracey hands down on the number of drumming magazines and books that have something to do with Sri Lanka around the bed.

Yet somehow I doubt people will pay good money to see it. Tracey's is art, mine is a bed. It's a shame because otherwise I'd be a multi millionaire. And I hope she doesn't mind me calling her by her first name. Recently I saw a picture of a piece by Damien Hirst. It was a series of evenly space coloured circles on a white background. It looked pleasant enough and I have a strong feeling that it was worth a lot of money.

My opinion is that anything is worth the money that someone will pay for it, I'm not questioning the worth. But, the talent in coming up with the piece was clearly in Mr Hirst thinking of the idea and in being Damien Hirst. One could justifiably argue that he came up with the concept and I didn't. One would be right of course. But if we compare the talent required to paint the piece with the talent it must have taken John Constable to paint the Haywain then you can probably see what I'm getting at.

It can't have been easy for Mr Hirst to draw those perfect circles, though I'm not sure if he used a compass or perhaps a series of jam jars to do them, but the skill in creating that particular piece was in thinking of it and in being called Damien Hirst, as well as creating all his previous work, which is what has made his name so valuable now. Give me a few compasses and some jam jars and I could knock up passable copy of Mr Hirst's piece but give me a paintbrush and some cans of Dulux and there's little probability of a perfect copy of the Haywain being conjured up.

In music there's that famous piece called 4' 33" by John Cage. It's basically four minutes and thirty three seconds of the musicians playing nothing. The idea is not that it's four minutes and thirty three seconds of silence but that it's four minutes thirty three seconds of hearing the other sounds in the environment. If I remember rightly Java and Theena were the only two people in the world to buy the extended version.

It's not my kind of thing, Mimosa did once try to cover it, in a funked up style, by I kept coming in at the wrong time and the brass section overcomplicated things so we abandoned it. It's considered to be a serious piece of music by many, including myself. Simply because this chap, John Cage, came up with the idea of using a total lack of music as music. It could lead to a related post about whether he gets royalties if there is four minutes and thirty three seconds of noise without music anywhere in the world, but that's for another time and place.

Back to the original question and the original dog.

"But is it art?"

Sadly the answer's a resounding "Yes".

It's also crap art, it's sick art, it's art that should be banned, it's art that should never be bought, art that should never be celebrated. It's art that should be illegal as well as immoral and it's art that should make the artist an outcast. It also should never be written about. Because when people write about it they make the artist more famous and more successful and his work will become more valuable in the future.

I'm too smart to fall for that though.

Shall We Dance?

You know when you're walking towards a chap and the chap is walking towards you, it might even be a girl but they glide more than walk. Then, as you approach each other, you both veer in the same direction to avoid a collision, then you both veer the other way to overcome the problem and you make it worse. Then sometimes it happens again, you both laugh and invariably one of you cracks a joke about dancing. Something like

"Shall we dance?"

I think we're all familiar with that scenario. Well I seem to have started to do it on the phone, as weird as that sounds. It's becoming a nightmare and one of those things that just gets worse as I get more aware of it.

What happens is that I'll be having a perfectly happy and jolly conversation with someone, usually when I'm at work. Then, as we get to the end of it, that's when things go pear shaped. For so many years it's been second nature to me, this whole thing about saying goodbye, but now I'm struggling big time.

In the past I, or the other person, would have said "bye", "see you later". Then I, or the aforementioned other person, would have reciprocated. These two little bits of talking would have been done while the other on the line listened, or pretended to listen, quite happily. I suspect you get the idea, one of us talks and the other stays silent. Then the silent party talks and the talker stays silent. It's a simple concept and you may even have done it yourself.

But lately I've started going into a state of panic, as if my years and years of experience of this telephone goodbying have been forgotten and my confidence has been shattered. Frankly I'm a shadow of my former self and I don't know where to turn and how to pull myself out of the slump.

Usually the conversation goes perfectly well, unless it's my Mum of course. Then, when we go through all that is needed to go through, things like prices, giving the person a quote or saying "Mum have you tried turning off the power and turning it on again?" we get to the final few words. That traditional time to say goodbye and get on with other things.

I pause, momentarily hesitating where I used to have confidence and just go for it. That pause is fatal, like letting a dog know that you're scared. Then the other person thinks that I've paused to let them talk, so they say

"Ok bye then"

But they say it at the exact same time that I've oversome my fears and remembered my lines. At least I think so, but I'm never certain what they've said because I can only hear myself saying

"Bye then"

"Sorry" we say in unison, partly because we're both confused and partly because rule one in one of my favourite books, "How to Speak English for the British" says that it's important to use the word at least four thousand times a day.

Rule one in another of my favourites, "How to speak English for Sri Lankans" says that the word "Aaaaah" can be used as a response to almost any question, but the intonation used can give it about fifteen different meanings, ranging from "Pardon me" to "Yes that's fine" to "No darling I wasn't asleep."

Then, just like in the walking towards each other thing, we both go for the same space again, after a brief pause. What I hear is something like

"mmm I blah then"

The mishmash of sounds, the confusion and the high pressure makes the words go funny. It's bloody annoying. Usually we go through the motions once more before there's a bit of laughter and we get the phasing correct. Eventually, after much time wasting and a bit of annoyance we bid farewell. I go off and write a post about it, the other person thinks bad things about me.

It's happening more and more.

Is it just me or does this happen to you too?

PS - Brought to you from the sunny climes of Singapore.

A Vacancy

Like a bit of a pillock I quite zealously guard those spaces on the left hand side of my blog, the ones that come under the "blogs I read" category. Why?

Well firstly because they genuinely have to be blogs that I read, and they are. Every day, or thereabouts I check in to see what's been happening on them. I'm not up to scratch with RSS feeds, readers and things so that, and Kottu are my main reference points. Secondly it's because I feel as if I'm providing a bit of a service to you, my reader.

If I'm reading a blog and it has a list of hundreds of other blogs down its side in the "blogs I read" section I tend to pay scant attention to those blogs. I might have a quick scan but usually I can't be bothered and the sheer volume of titles makes me lose interest. So, on my blog, though I don't have a maximum number in mind, I keep the number of blogs to a level that I think might retain a person's interest.

I also have my own policy of adding new ones to the bottom of the list, with the remainder in anything but alphabetical order. Darwin's and Cerno's go second and first respectively, though that sentence would have been much cleaner if I'd written it the other way round like this:

"Cerno's and Darwin's go first and second respectively"

But, once the linking had been done I just got lazy. Sorry about that.

Either way, they go first and second, or second and first, because they are the last two years' blogs of the year, admittedly awarded by only me, but around these parts that means something. Then we have Java, whose blog just demands to be read. After that the order gets a bit random, loosely based on a combination of how frequently they update, how sexy they are, their taste in music and what I think of their writing.

It's important that I don't have "dead" blogs or dodgy links there too. As much as I like a blog, if it's not updated regularly I, and most others, lose interest rapidly. Lady Luck seems to have gone quiet and I don't know if she's stopped blogging or is just inundated with patients or something. It's a sad and disappointing state of affairs if she's now putting her work, that whole looking after people and curing them thing, ahead of blogging.

So, after some rambling, I've got to my point. Which is that N of Tiny Little Fractures is in retirement from blogging. As much as I like reading his archives this means that my link to his blog is going to go. It's harsh but fair and it's for the greater good. I have a few ideas on which blog I'm going to add in its place.

But what do you think? I guess you know a bit about what I like. Are there any blogs out there that you think demand to be included in my sidebar? Do you even care?

Answers on a postcard please.

Or a comment.

I'll be away for a week or so but I'll check in and be back before you can say "Yes, I remember that blog"

Laters.

Men, Women, All You Need To Know

I went through my usual blogs the other morning and saw Dinidu's post about girlspeak.

Sometimes the onset of age and experience is a wonderfully liberating thing. There's many a thing that just can't be taught but has to be learnt through empirical evidence, if that's the phrase.

Understanding women is one of them. As we men get older we discover things about the fairer and smarter sex every day. We occasionally learn a bit about women too. (only joking there!).

But, if you ask an older and experienced Adonis type, I reckon he'll back me up on this; that we don't really learn or get to understand women, we just learn that they're impossible to understand and we understand that we have so much more to learn.

I feel qualified to preach a little on this. As you know I'm renowned for my fearlessness and, well my lack of fear. I'm prepared to speak out on behalf of my species; men. Just don't mention it to any of the women in my life if you know or meet them.

Allow me to present my credentials; I have an ex wife, two scary almost teenage daughters (whom you know well), a Sri Lankan Mother and I once kissed a girl, not on the lips though. I think I can be safely considered as an expert.

And young Dinidu has made two big errors in his attempt to understand women, or girls as he calls them. It's understandable because he's a man.

We men operate through a simple yet beautiful system, one that can make us easy to read, easy to predict and easy to understand. The system is called "rules". We have them, we use them and we live by them. If a man says that he likes a boiled egg for breakfast then that means he's happy to eat one everyday for the rest of his life. At breakfast time too. If a fellow likes a certain pair of jeans then that means he's happy to own a wardrobe full of the exact same jeans and wear them whenever he wears jeans, which of course is all the time.

There may be different rules that apply to different men. I have heard a theory that just because Man A likes beer it doesn't necessarily mean that Man B does. I'm happy to go with it even though proof does not exist. Most men would agree. We are men. We like to eat, drink and fart. We like cars and blondes and scratching our balls. We like to watch films that are either violent or funny and we like loud music. Simple. Like us.

Dinidu, like a very talented youngster who has suddenly been called up to play cricket for his country and has dropped a crucial catch becasue he was waving to his Mum, has made a schoolboy error. He's assumed that there are rules that apply to women, that the behaviour of a female is governed by a set of laws.

Let's continue with the boiled egg scenario. As I said before, a man who says he likes an egg for breakfast will be happy with one on his breakfast plate every morning, for the rest of his life. If a woman says she likes an egg for breakfast it means nothing whatsoever. Do not base your future behaviour on her apparent liking for a breakfast egg. Ask her what she wants for breakfast before you present it to her and expect the unexpected.

Dinidu's second error was to apply logic to the female mind. As if dropping the catch because he was waving to his Mum wasn't enough he's now let the ball hit him on the head too. Logic is a man thing. We think in straight lines, we make assumptions that are correct if they're about other men. Logic is like scratching your balls, it's not a female thing. For the sake of fairness I should point out that all men are crap at cartwheels and women can do them naturally. Maybe it's because they never have to think about the pain involved if you crush your balls when you land or something.

So, just to recap. The rules for understanding women are as follows:


1. There are no rules


2. Logic doesn't apply


3. Never try to understand them.

It's that simple.

Women, Know Your Place.

As a keen Lankaphile I pay regular attention to the available online newspapers, whether crap ones or good ones I like to read them to be able to formulate my own opinions. I have an ongoing debate with someone who tells me that a person has to live in Sri Lanka to really experience it and know about it. My side of the coin is that these days, with blogs and other online content, we can learn much about day to day life there compared to the days before the net was such a part of our lives.

Of course living on the island gives anyone a better perspective than that of someone who hasn't lived there, but a person can be pretty well informed through other means too. Enough of that, it's just padding and a bit of an introduction. And lately my padding and introductions have led to two and three part posts, which you're getting a but pissed off with I reckon.

I'm continually surprised by some people's attitude towards the roles of men and women in society, more specifically I'm often shocked when I hear people talk of women as being the home maker and the child rearer. It's not that women, or men in my opinion, shouldn't do those things or assume those roles if they want to. If people are happy then I'm all for that. I just have issues with society expecting things of the female species that the average female may not want to do.

I suppose I'm a bit of a women's libber in that sense, perhaps because of my background. My maternal grandmother was very active in that sphere and even tried to emulate Emily Davison, the woman who threw herself under the King's racehorse here in the UK in 1913. Unfortunately she attempted a copy cat thing and threw herself under a bullock cart on the Galle Road in 1948, which probably makes it a copy cow thing. The event was seen as a failure, mostly because my grandmother had forgotten that bullocks travel at about 2 mph, so the driver steered around her, shouted something in Sinhala about my grandmother's breasts and life carried on as normal. I have heard that the bullock suffered from post traumatic stress disorder and had to have several weeks off work, but cannot verify the fact. It may only have been a few days.

My thinking is also that women in Sri Lanka are less free to pursue careers and their desired paths than they are here in the UK., not because they don't want to but because of the expectations of society. There are many, many career ladies in SL but the mass media and much of Sri Lankan society expects women to fill that "wife" and "homemaker" role. Sometimes I get annoyed and angered by this and sometimes I laugh, in a dreadfully patronising and condescending way, about this specific example of Sri Lanka playing catch up with Western society.

Then I read the women's section in a Sri Lankan newspaper, like here and I realize that this is what much of Sri Lankan society expects of women. Sod the career thing, forget about an identity and any thoughts of success that don't begin with

"isn't she married to......?"

Oh no, the important things for a modern woman are to keep a house ready to receive an unexpected guest. If you'd like to save time and not read the article I'll give you some highlights:

1. Keep a jar of iced tea ready in the fridge and have a plentiful supply of lemons around.

2. Have a load of cookie dough in the fridge at all times. Then, when the doorbell rings, you can make cookies for the unexpected guest and clearing up only takes about 15 minutes.

3. Set aside a place in the house, ideally a whole room, that's always tidy and presentable for entertaining.

4. Keep a nice CD ready in the CD player at all times. Then, when that doorbell rings, you can press play as you walk towards the door and the visitor will be greeted with a nice soothing blast of Mimosa when they walk into the special room you've set aside.

I'm sure you'll agree that these tips are useful and practical for today's busy woman. After the guest leaves you'll have plenty of time to cook dinner for your husband too. Later on girls, if you're lucky, he may let you have sex with him too.

The Evil Child

By now K, my eleven going on eighteen year old, is reasonably well known to you. You've heard about her antics, her liking for My Chemical Romance and similar and you know all about her advanced negotiating skills. As do I.

You'd think that I'd be ready for her to pounce at any time. A bit like Kato against Clousseau, that I'd lie in hiding in a permanent state of alert in case she attacks. That I'd be be ready for her to metaphorically jump out of a cupboard and Karate chop my head off. In fact in many ways I wish I was ready, but that would take away the element of suprise, which is fun in an "oh God what's she done now?" sort of way.

Picture the situation. I was chilling at home, having bought some new jeans and a couple of polo shirts in Kingston. In a slightly girly way I was apprehensive about buying the polo shirts but they were from Gap and the little bit of writing made me err on the side of spending the money. It said:

"Made in Sri Lanka"

I'm weak like that.

So I'd got home and was looking at the blog, publishing a few comments and browsing through some new books I'd bought. For a while I've had a Mac version of MS Office on my Macbook but haven't installed the MSN Messenger part of it. I bought the software to use Excel and Word and it came with an MSN thing. I've no real desire to begin my MSNing but there is one motivator.

K spends a lot of time on it, as do most of her friends. For some reason A, the thirteen year old, isn't that interested but K is to be seen most nights chatting away to her heart's content. Her Mother and I both try to police this activity as much as possible but it's an ongoing battle to decide where to draw the line between security and letting them do what all their friends do. A battle that I'm sure other parents have all the time, just ask Dinidu's Mum.

I know that joining up won't help a huge amount but I had thought that I'd sign up to MSN and make K a friend, so I could have a bit of an eye on what she's talking about, without prying too much. Sunday afternoon with a bit of spare time saw me installing MSN, staring at my Macbook and wondering what the fuck was going on, a normal occurrence when I install anything on anything.

Then, once the installation was done, I attempted to make K a friend, my only one. I quickly found out that this wasn't as simple as I had hoped. It involved some kind of email going in her direction and me asking her for friendship. You can imagine my trepidation. Putting K in a position of power is asking for trouble. A bit like putting your brother in charge of defence, you know it's going to cause problems but you just don't know the exact nature of them.

Well my problems came back to me within half an hour in the form of this email:

Dearest Father,

I am afraid I declined you on msn I told you I wouldn't accept you so I haven't! Mwuhahaha

Well I accepted then deleted you... Bye Bye

From

Evil Child x

There was a smiley in there somewhere but it hasn't come out when I copied and pasted.

Need I say more?

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Lately In The Sri Lankan Blogosphere....

It's been a while since I wrote one of these, so here goes.

The regulars that I read have been going through mixed times. Some have been as quiet as Mervyn Silva on a stag do and others have been as loud as a churchmouse who has lost his voice.

The big news, sad and all is the blog retirement of N, of Tiny Little Fractures. He's off and I'm among the many who'll miss following his life and the adventures it holds.

A couple of posts caught my eye recently because of the sheer quality of wirting they exhibited. I'm no literary critic or expert, my English "O" level probably doesn't give me the necessary qualifications to judge writing and literature in terms of the correct use of nouns and verbs and things. But I can read a thing and like it.

The first one was Java Jones' stunning little storyette "The Ultimate Freedom?" The first time I read it I had to remember to breathe when I got to the end, it had captured me so much. Since then I've lost count of the number of times I've re read it. It's one of those clever and thought provoking pieces that I'm sure will stick in my mind for longer than a Sri Lankan Airlines flight delay.

The second little gem was this beauty by David Blacker. It's about Cologne, the city not the fragrance stuff, though I reckon he could write just as vividly about the splash on thing too.

His writing is so crisp and descriptive that I was drawn in immediately and felt as if I was out drinking with him within about three sentences. He really should write a book or something!

I often say this but I hold on board so much admiration for these writing types, their power over words and language continually amazes and delights me.

Dinudu De Alwis, everyone's favourite sexual rights activist, has been going through some heartbreak and pain. It may in part have been caused by his post on the issues he has with Islam, nicely written, well presented yet probably not one that's going to win him any awards at the next Islamic literary festival. This comment to the post seems to be an equally eloqently written and rational response. Overall though Dinidu's blog continues to pull in readers. I think it's the wide range of topics covered and the honesty he portrays that attracts us.

After many weeks of almost total blogging silence Sach has launched herself straight back into the SL blogosphere with a bit of a stunner. It's a clever move of her to head the piece with that photograph of her and Theena running through the wilds. Her review has very probably had a massive positive effect on the viewing figures for the film she's mentioned too.

One of the most read via Kottu posts had been this by Pissu Perera. It's a girly one, all about losing and gaining weight and getting fit, but the way she talks about getting to the age of forty sure as hell makes me feel old.

T, her from Dance In A Triangle, the blog that changes its name more often than a Sri Lankan politician changes parties, has got clearance from Super Dad for her trip to SL in the summer. I sure hope my girls call me Super Dad when they're older, it would make a nice change from the names I get called now. There's vague talk of some kind of Sri Lankan bloggers meet up in July or August too.

Amila Salgado, not to be confused with Amila Delgado the Spanish midfielder, has yet another of his fabulously photographed posts up. The pictures of Dragonflies and other winged beauties are truly inspiring. I asked him how he manages to take these pictures and he told me that it helps if you kill them first. That way, if you're clever, you can staple their wings and legs to the leaf and have unlimited time to get a good picture.

The Missing Sandwich put out this highly readable post. She lists some of the things she has done in her life and some that she still wants to do. Ironically she calls the post "Never been kissed", but it's clear from the things she's done that kissing has been done, even some same sex stuff. What a girl!

As for the things she wants to do I have some comments;

"Bartending in Britain" - Why?

"Understand my parents" - Impossible, particularly if they're Sri Lankan

"Be swept off my feet" - see below

"Visit a dentist" - see above

"Have sex tied up" - see above

In other parts the Rumbling Lankan continues to regale us with endless, or needless, posts on how to attract eight million readers a day to your blog and what widgets you should include if you want to be the king of the bloggers. It's not my thing but I'm sure the Rumbler gets an infinitely higher amount of readers than I do.

Finally everyone's favourite Domestic Goddess has been out giving relationship advice. This is in between mouthfuls of chocolate swirl shortbread, which looked mighty fine to me.

That's about it for now. There is this painting exhibition on at Barefoot. If I were in Colombo I'd be there checking it out. Academic bro is off there tomorrow and I'm dead jealous. If you bump into him give him a kick or something and say it's from his better looking eldest brother. Thanks.

Have a good weekend and a belated Happy New Year to all.

RD

What's Your Slightly Embarrassing Secret?

We're not talking about big drastic ones, like confessing to the Sri Lankan blogosphere that you once had a little game of hide the sausage with your great Aunt. No, I mean "slightly" embarrassing.

I'll start the ball rolling by telling you that I can't whistle. Never have I been able to do that whole pursing of the lips, making some movement with my tongue and chucking out a pleasant sounding melody thing that Otis Elevator and all those other chaps can do without having to even think about it.

I can do one where I ram two fingers into my mouth and attract the attention of some stranger on the other side of a medium sized town, that's easy enough. It has its uses but it's no good whatsoever when I feel a need to casually get out the melody to Sweet Caroline by Neil Diamond, or perhaps Song Sung Blue.

But, get me to make that pointy cone shape with my mouth and, try as I might, with all the different tongue positions I can think of, it's just a stream of silent air that comes gushing out.

What's your slightly embarrassing secret?

Goodbye Tiny Little Fractures

I genuinely feel a bit sad as I write this. Child of 25 is bidding us farewell, doing a runner and fading off into the outside world.

Why do I feel sad? It's only a blog isn't it?

Well it's because it was one of the first Sri Lankan blogs I stumbled upon and began to read regularly. I followed N's progress from pretty much his first post. I've never met him in person but we've exchanged emails and things and, even though he likes Snow Patrol and James Blunt, he strikes me as one of life's good guys.

I suppose all of us who've read his blog have been part of his life, in a funny way. We've read about him settling in the US, of his trips to the Motherland, his growing fascination with photography and of course his ongoing search to find Mrs Childof25. I've enjoyed each bit, each insight into his life and existence.

N's writing is quirky too. There are some blogs that are side splittingly funny. There are some that are hard hitting and edgy, like an Ikea bookcase. N's is one that has always made me smile, but with a warm smile and a quiet little chuckle. His way of putting things across just does that.

On top of all that his was the first ever blog to link to mine, a grand occasion that feels a bit like losing your virginity. I'd like to thank him for that, the link bit not the virginity thing.

Good luck and thanks for the words Childof25.

RD

Lovers Are For Old People?

I was engaged in a discussion the other day and the question found itself in the midst of the conversation. What is a lover?

That feeling hit me. You know when you meet someone face to face, a person you've spoken to and got to know quite well over the phone or perhaps by email. Then you meet and, if you're like me, you think to yourself

"Fucking hell, she looks nothing like I'd imagined"

Yet you hadn't built up any kind of conscious mental image in your head before the meeting. You hadn't thought that she would have blonde hair and a bum like two cats in a bag. You hadn't thought that he'd be the spitting image of Ranil Wickremesinghe only with a beard and bad acne. No, you thought that you had no preconceived notions, but on meeting the meetee, you were shocked and surprised anyway.

The feeling hit me because the definition of a lover is something I've never pondered on before, it's always existed in the back of my mind, whenever I've read the word I've understood it and carried on with life. But, all of a sudden I was sitting there and scratching my chin, wondering exactly what a lover is.

Of course it's not a word used much in everyday conversation now anyway. I can't think of many people who I can imagine saying the word. There are a few oldish Aunts who I can picture telling another oldish Aunt about two of their younger contacts who

"Used to be lovers you know"

But that's about it. It's an old fashioned word mostly bandied about in films and in print.

To me it implies a sexual relationship that was more than a one night stand. Although it's not wrong to describe two people who once had a one night stand as "ex lovers", it's also not quite right.

It also doesn't seem to apply to a married couple, even though a married couple are usually lovers too, which could open up another discussion altogether. I can't picture a husband introducing his wife to someone and labelling her as his lover. The French use of the word, or rather the British image of the French use, throws up images of a French fellow, married to some average looking middle aged woman and having a glamorous and sexy girlfriend on the side. She'd live in a plush apartment overlooking the Seine and the chap would be her only partner.

A relationship with sex, of an ongoing sort.

Black and white people in old films would have been labelled as lovers too, as would the actors who played the people. Marilyn Monroe and JKF were lovers, Antony and Cleopatra were lovers and even Kylie Minogue and Jason Donovan were lovers. Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton were lovers for sure, but had they both been alive and married to each other now I don't think many would label them as lovers.

Whenever I hear the words "to take a lover" my mind conjurs up slightly romantic and sexy visions of a glamorous older woman deciding to "take a lover" rather like picking out a new pair of shoes or a postcard from a rack. As a younger and far more virile man it was perfectly normal for me to think along those lines but now I'm the age of the older women and still coming to terms with my loss. I'm told that many men go through this sort of phase in their life and deal with it by buying a Harley Davidson or joining a band or something. You wouldn't catch me doing that kind of thing!

But to "take a lover" gives me that older woman image. The woman would pick out some sort of stud, then use and abuse him on a regular basis. There'd be no mental connection, just ongoing physical stuff, very possibly with her paying him money or "keeping" him. It's hard to see why many young men would be attracted to this sort of thing isn't it.

What do you think? Is the word "lover" an old fashioned one that no one uses anymore? Would you describe your girlfriend/boyfriend/husband/wife as your lover? Or is it only the French who have lovers?

Anyone??

Mixed Routes - Three Plays And A Sri Lankan Actress

(pic by Dhammika)

So there I was, sitting in Camden People's theatre, about to watch this trilogy of plays about mixed identity. I'm no great theatre lover to be honest. Obviously I've seen the classics like Lion King, Starlight Express and Mamma Mia, but plays aren't high up on my list of things I must do.

I was there because Ian's Aunt was here, the play was about mixed identity and it had Nimmi Harasgama in it, who I hadn't seen or met before, but I knew of.

On this occasion instead of being early because I was afraid of being late and had over compensated, I was early because I had intended to get the train up and do some strolling around, a bit of shopping, browsing and general mooching. My plan went pear shaped and after an hour of standing on my little local station platform I gave up, got in my car and drove. The resulting time of arrival was too late for mooching and shopping as all the shops were closed, yet still about two hours before the play started. As a man who likes adventure and trying new things out I was pleased that my excessive earliness was for a new reason.

I went to the theatre first, just to recce things. As I opened the theatre door I almost ended up slamming it into someone's face. I did the gallant thing and held it open for her, then I walked in behind her. A win win situation; I could be gallant and also check out her bum without her knowing. The girl turned out to be Nimmi, I introduced myself and said the usual Sri Lankan hello thing, that one where you say who you're a friend of and marvel at the whole six degrees of separation thing, the fact that for the average Sri Lankan it reduces to about one degree, two on rare occasions.

We went our separate ways and about an hour and a half later I was back in the foyer of the place milling around with more Sri Lankans than you can fit in a private bus. One of the first people I met was old Dhammika himself, him of Thinkfreed. We chatted and I met his wife and, in that degrees of separation way again, we found that we're half brothers or something like that.

The time came to take our seats, so all were ushered into the theatre. Camden People's Theatre is a lovely and basic feeling place, a fringe thing that is vastly underfunded but evidently doing a fine job under difficult circumstances. It's fair to say that we took our chairs, rather than seats. They were nice chairs with a little bit of padding, a back and everything. On the stage were two shopping trolleys. One was covered with bits of paper that had names of Sri Lankan specialities written on them. Things like mutton, buriyani, vadai and what nots.

The other trolley had similar pieces of paper but with names of Carribean things on them. I can't remember the things to be honest and my knowledge of those parts isn't good enough to make stuff up, but probably things like Bounty bars and the like. After about ten minutes I realised that the trolleys were most likely props for the play. My conclusion was aided by the chap, the director I think, who came on and talked a bit about the forthcoming trilogy.

You know something, I'll tell you a secret here. I've always been an ardent admirer of chaps and girls who can get up and talk confidently and calmly in front of people. As a salesperson I've done a bit of it myself but frankly I crap myself every time. This fellow got up there and chatted to the audience as coolly and calmly as if he was having a casual tete a tete with his Mum, not that I know his Mum. If she's anything like mine then the whole simile goes flying out of the window quicker than you can say "scary Sri Lankan mother". Give me a drumkit to sit behind any day.

The first play was the one with our heroine, Nimmi, in it. It began with her and the other lady, also an actress, doing some shopping in a supermarket. Cleverly they made use of the trolleys for this bit. Nimmi was very Sri Lankan in appearance. Her hair was up in a bun and she had a sari of sorts on. The other woman was wearing what I must assume is Jamaican "street" clothing and their respective acting made it clear that they were in their own separate worlds. On catching sight of each other they both took off bits of garment, changed hairstyle, shuffled around the contents of their trolley and did everything possible to make their appearance as "British" as possible for the other. They both mouthed the word "fuck" as they caught sight of the other too. A nice touch for the less educated in the audience, like me.

The ensuing twenty minutes or so was captivating and eye catching. They started and continued a dialogue that was based on their own lives. At times the dialogue became a monologue and the other person froze, or perhaps just forgot their lines, and the featured artist spoke as if in their head. One of the most captivating things for me was the way they did so many accents. Nimmi presented us with strong Sri Lankan accents, with middle class English accents, some Sinhala and some Tamil. It was all authentic but I can't claim to be an expert in Tamil and Sinhala accents.

The piece was a reflection on the mixed identity of each of the artistes, of the feelings, frustrations and many different accents each of us mixed race kids are used to and sometimes not so used to. I'm all too familiar with the feelings, being mostly a drummer but also a blogger.

It led nicely into the next piece, performed by a mixed Hong Kong Chinese English lady called Christina. This was less direct in its visual references than the trolley one. Where the trolley one showed people in a supermarket with very clear and vivid imagery this one left more to the imagination with visual metaphors and similes that forced us, the audience, to come to our own conclusions about what was going on.

It told the story of how Christina was brought up in an apartment in which her English Father and Chinese Mother would often communicate through her as they had little in common in the way of language. It was a solo piece and Christina did lots of writhing, that looked particularly painful as well as some painting on the floor. The painting on the floor was a bit of a technical issue as most of us couldn't see what was going on, only that there was some floor based crouching down activity happening.

We discovered, when it was projected up on the wall as pictured above, that she was drawing the image, half in Cantonese or Mandarin (sorry but I can't recollect which it is) and half in English. At the beginning of the piece it said "I am not English" with the equivalent and opposite statement on the other side of the image in the other language. It's confusing to explain it in writing but I reckon I just might have got there.

Towards the end of the piece as the actress talked us through her thought patterns and development she did some more crouched down floor painting. The image changed to one in which she had crossed out the word "not" and what we all assumed to be the same on the other side of the world. It hit me like a bargepole, one that hit me sideways and not just on its end. More of a resounding smack than a painful prod. It's the exact way I've been thinking for the last few years. Not the Chinese bit, the Sri Lankan and British bit.

For so long I felt I was neither a Brit nor a Sri Lankan yet now I truly feel both, with a sense of abundance that I'm proud of. It's taken me many years to get here but I like it now. I'm brown, I've got a Sarf London drawl, I'm Sri Lankan and I'm British and I'm ok with that.

There was a bit of shuffling around with the sets, though there wasn't much in the way of sets to shuffle, then the next playlet started. I must admit that it was bit too ethereal for me, but the salsa dancing performed by the leading lady was startlingly spectacular, which was good enough to keep my eyes rivetted to the stage. I was told afterwards that it was about Guantanamo Bay, which made things clearer, but it was the first two pieces that caught me.

Nimmi Harasgama's one pulled me in with its acting, its defined and vivid imagery and the feeling of lightness it left me with. Christina's piece stuck with me because it felt as if it had been written about my mind and my mindset. It felt heavy instead of light, but it was a nice heaviness I was left with. Probably like a chap would feel after eating too many shuttlecocks not like that heaviness caused by way too much rice and dhall.

A load of us ended up in a nearby pub, then an Indian restaurant, then a quick drive home after dropping Old Aunt Onetruecoolguy and her husband where they were staying. I think it's safe to say that a good night was had by all.

Maybe I could do this thespian thing a bit more!

23 Boxes And A Long One!

What's happening in the Rhythmic life?

With thanks to David Blacker I'm living up to the "pimped up diary" thing. It's a perfect description of LLD and has given me a strange desire to chuck out a few words now and again to tell anyone who's interested what's been happening in these parts, which of course I always did, but now it's formal.

Two things happened to me yesterday that made me smile, chuckle and laugh, a bit like a supermarket own brand of Rice Krispies. The first of the two actually happened at the supermarket too.

Lunchtime was jam packed with my usual; a stroll over to Tesco and a sandwich of some sort. Wednesdays is my night to have the girls so the lunchtime stroll also involves buying the necessary ingredients for the evening meal.

The girls at work had suggested spaghetti bolognese for dinner so I found myself standing at a checkout with the necessaries and a sweets shop's worth of chocolate biscuitish things for the girls (my home ones) to munch on in the evening. My basket had eleven items so I was of course standing in one of the longer queues, not one of the ten or less items ones that I could have so easily have smuggled myself into were I that way inclined.

Then I saw it, or him, or them. It was the contents of the trolley of the chap in front of me that caught my attention. You know Cadbury's Flakes, not the ones we eat as chocolate bars but the half sized ones that ice cream men use in 99s? Well I learned that they are available in boxes of around twenty or thirty. I learned this from the fact that the chap in front of me had twenty three of these boxes in his trolley. I knew this was the case as I surreptitiously counted them. He also had one long French bread loaf in the trolley, which tickled me, though not in that smutty way you're thinking. That was it, there was nothing else in the chap's trolley.

I studied the chap. He was a Sikh, perhaps an ice cream man, but the French Stick was the sticking point. Twenty three boxes of Cadbury's Flake and a French stick was the type of trolley content that a good episode of Miss Marple could be made out of. I was mystified. Then the lightbulb moment came. Which reminds me, I wonder if the bloke who invented lightbulbs had a light bulb moment.

He must have been one of those weird food types, the sort who can only eat jam or who live on the contents of used tea bags. Only his particular fetish was French bread sandwiches made from Cadbury's Flakes. Presumably the sandwiches had to be cut down to size, which would explain why he wasn't using full sized Flakes. 'tis indeed a funny old world and I studied his complexion. There was no vast array of acne nor any visible evidence of his strange taste in food. I guess he was just lucky. I carried on with my day, content with the knowledge that I had figured out this mystery.

Then I picked up the girls in the evening and K came out with one of those phrases that made me proud and laugh.

We were walking along my road, heading back after popping to the local shop. K and A were in seriously high spirits. I think it's partly because they are still getting used to the whole new way of life and they're often a bit over excited when I collect them or drop them back. In time I'm sure they'll calm down.

As we were walking the excitement reached a crescendo of sorts and I asked both of them to calm down. A had been skipping like a strangely jerky Kangaroo and K had been squeezing a cuddly toy thing that was making a squeeking noise, as I'm sure it was designed to do. I asked them to calm down with some choice fatherly words:

"Will you two just calm down a bit now please?"

"Ok Dad" said K. "We will"

"In fact look at us now" she continued.

"We're now as calm as two monkeys in a baby's bath"

"You what? What did you say?" I asked.

"I said we're as calm as two monkeys in a baby's bath."

"That's whatI thought you said, where on Earth did you get that from?" said I.

"You know me Dad, I'm surprisingly clever, these things just come to me sometimes." the too smart for her own good eleven year old continued.

Well I do know her, she is too smart for her own good sometimes, but she makes me smile.

And those were two of the things that happened yesterday.

Anyone Lost One Of These?

Guess whose it is and you just might win a prize.

Comment Sense

Comments on blogs are an interesting phenomenon aren't they? I'm sure we've all been through those early blogging days when we chased readership, comments and links to our blogs. I've got to a ripe old age in blog years and am at the stage when I jot words down as and when they come to me, some get published straight away and others languish in draft form for months, maybe never to be published.

I guess I think of myself as quite wise in blog knowledge too. I'm not one of those geeky fellows, the ones who can tell you all about the latest tricks and ways of getting millions of readers with every word you write. RSS feeds are a thing I know nothing about, not even which animals eat them. But, I know some basics. I can spot the cynical blogs, the ones who are chasing readership at all costs, from about half a mile away.

Most of the old regulars in the Sri Lankan blogosphere are quite mellow too. People like Java, the Domestic Goddess and Mrs Sansoni operate their blogs just as they wish to do so, without chasing readership and writing all sort of rubbish about young naked girls and ways to make money from blogging.

Yet, despite my "knowledge", a term I do use loosely, there's one nugget of wisdom that alludes me. It's the ability to predict whether a post will get no comments at all or if it will attract more interest than a quiet month on the Mihin Air balance sheet. I never can tell.

I'll happily chuck a post out thinking that it's an innocuous one that people won't react to, only to find comments coming at me quicker than tuk tuks heading towards a German tourist standing outside one of CMB's five star hotels. Or I'll type out a long thought out pseudo intellectual post and expect to kick off some serious debate among my reader and find that no one is vaguely interested.

Acceptance is a wonderful thing and I'm now content with the knowledge that I publish something and it may or may not get comments galore. I have a friend who will often tell me what will get comments and what won't, she's usually right too. But it does baffle me.

What about you? Do other bloggers know what's going to attract comments like flies or are you as clueless as me?

I suppose it would be ironic if this post got no comments too.

Sunday Morning Perusings

Here I sit on Sunday morning. Sam's Town by The Killers is blasting out at a level that only a half deaf drummer could deal with comfortably. It's a few months since I've listened to this album properly and it suits my energised mood right now.

I went to bed with a smile on my face, a feeling of excitement and discovery in my left brain and a stomach jam packed with way too much Indian food. It could have been a dangerous night but all turned out nice and peaceful.

You see old Aunt Onetruecoolguy is down here in London for a few days and I trotted off with her and her husband last night to see that play thing, Mixed Routes, with Nimmi Harasgama. I may try to do some kind of review of the play, rather that trio of plays, later in the week. For now I'll just carry on telling you "pimped up diary" kind of stuff. I will tell you that the plays were rather entertaining and seriously thought provoking.

Being a bit of a thicko I didn't really get the last one, but it did have the most sublime salsa dancing which I was quite content to sit and enjoy. That's one of the good things about being me. Luckily old Aunt Onetruecoolguy's husband explained to me afterwards that it was about Guantanamo Bay and all then became clear. I think he was in a kindly mood towards me because I had bought a packet of watermelon flavoured jelly things before the play and the two of us fairly demolished them.

Java, I passed on your regards to Nimmi, she returned them in that dramatic way that all these acting types do so well. And I finally met Dhammika of Thinkfreed. It's true, he is rather huge and had to book two seats for him and his pot belly. Nice chap though and I wanted to talk more to him afterwards but he was nowhere to be seen.

As any of us would predict the audience was largely made up of Sri Lanka Diaspora. Everyone knew each other and there were only two Sri Lankans in the theatre who weren't related to each other. I guess these things happen sometimes, rare as it is.

Then, when I woke this morning I did that lazy sarong clad trek to the bathroom for that early morning pee, you know the one when you rub the sleep out of your eyes and feel a bit curious about what the world's going to hold in store for you today, all the while trying to tie the old sarong. And, as I walked past the long window at the top of my stairs I did a double take at what I saw.

White powder, more than I've witnessed at some of the more dodgy band practices I've been to, was fluttering in a downward direction and there was lots of it. I went to another window, as my dodgy rented house has more than one of them, and saw pretty thick snow covering the ground, with a sky that looked full of it. A couple of hours later as I peer out it's still falling and still settling. I must admit it makes me a tiny bit sad. It brought back memories of the girls when they were younger. Of how a flurry like this would make them jump out of bed and run out to have a snowfight and build a snowman.

I'm not sure if they're too old for that kind of behaviour now. They may well be staring at it with wide open eyes, or they might be just blase and matter of fact about it. I might even find out when they reply to my texts!

We'll see!

Many Happy Returns To Kottu

Cerno tells us that Kottu is three years old today. I'm happy to take the esteemed blogger at his word, even though he makes a lot of things up for effect and attention! For example you probably thought all the Google Earth images he posts are real screen shots didn't you? But no, Cerno actually does a convincing job of drawing them in his front room, with a large pack of crayons that he got for his last birthday. Keep that to yourself though. If you want further proof just have another look at his posts and you'll see that none of them have got any purple in them. Well that's because he lost the purple crayon some time ago. I think we can safely consider the matter proven.

But I'd like to take this opportunity to wish Kottu the best and to thank Indi for his efforts. Like so many other bloggers Kottu is my first port of call when looking at Sri Lankan blogs and I love the way he lets it run and keeps things all smooth and slick.

So Indi, great job, turn around and give yourself a big pat on the back, and thanks from me.

I Just Can't Find The Words

I've loved music all my life. I think much of that is a Sri Lankan thing and that many of us have been brought up in an environment in which music was continually in the background. Maybe it's the same for you, maybe not.

But, I've never been a fellow who pays much attention to lyrics. I know chaps who listen to every word of a song, who can recite the vocal line to every one of their favourite songs at the drop of a hat. Then they go home and talk to other chaps about the deep and meaningful second verse of the song that they heard earlier. Well, that's not me, which could explain partly why I play the drums rather than ponce about with a microphone flicking my hair and being late for every band practice.

These days when I learn a song I often use the lyrics as signposts to get my drum part right. I pay attention to the words to learn that, when the singer says that bit, I have to go to my ride cymbal or change my part to a different groove, or whatever. Of course this is a poor substitute for learning the drum part properly, which involves ignoring the lyrics and concentrating on the feel of the song and the structure of it and whole signpost principle is only as good as the singer's ability to remember the words. Most of the singers I've played with always remember the words but aren't always sure of the order.

Yes I know that songwriters cite lyrics as being vitally important to the success of a song, but they remain something I pay little attention to. The norm in the music industry is that half of the royalties are paid to the lyricist and half to the composer, so they are clearly held in high regard by others.

I was watching a slightly fantastic jazz funk band the other night in the regular gig at my local that I told you about here. They were a bunch of twenty something guys, all brilliant musicians, the type that could easily have filled me with envy and jealousy and, well, they did. Bastards.

The drummer was a bloke that I've read about in a few of my drum magazines, quite well known in the drum world and this was the first time I'd ever seen or heard him play. He looked to be an unassuming sort of guy and walked casually aruond the pub beforehand as if he was a tad on the shy and nervous side. But, as soon as he was behind the kit, he was a changed man. I understood. He looked as if sitting behind the kit was the place that made him feel the most comfortable and not just because his drum stool had a lot of padding.

The band was great, a bit more on the jazz side than the funk side for my liking but I could appreciate their immense musicianship. The guitarist did most of the talking and introduced one song along these lines:

"This song's about a date the drummer had a while ago"

I was surprised at the whole concept of a drummer having a date but other than that all seemed normal. They played the song and I listened with baited ears, thinking that I'd ask him later how to get a date.

The next song was given another introduction by the guitarist:

"This song's called 'Dinner with Dave'. It's about a dinner that our drummer had with a famous drummer called Dave Weckl."

They kicked off, in a musical way. Another good song followed. Bastards. Again. One word sentences. More.

I decided to leave after their first set. I was a bit knackered and had made a spectacularly nice mince curry the night before. The leftovers were calling me, the rice was cooked and I strolled home with a nonchalent air and a slightly rumbling stomach. As I strolled past the Teddington kebab shop it hit me, like a raspberry jelly falling out of a plane.

What hit me was the indisputable fact that none of the songs the band played had any words. They were all instrumentals. Words were not involved, not even a random "the" chucked in or a stray "love" anywhere.

Even with my disregard for lyrics at the best of times I struggle with this concept, particularly considering the introductions and stories behind the two songs I mentioned. How the hell can a song be about a dinner that the drummer had with Dave Weckl when it's got no words? How can another be about the drummer's date with someone when it doesn't tell us anything?

Perhaps the quiet bit in the Dave Weckl song reflected the few minutes when Mr Weckl went off for a pee during dinner, maybe the loud and thrashy bit in the date song was about the argument that the drummer and his date had about the merits of BMWs compared to Mercs. Frankly I don't understand.

I understand if an instrumental is called "Song 1" or "Song 3". If one were named "Song 2" that would be a rip off because Blur have already done that and it's got words too. But the whole long story behind an instrmental, the whole "this is what it's about" thing and the plot and background are mysteries to me.

Call an instrumental "Beethoven's ninth" or even his seventh by all means but all this story stuff baffles me.

It's probably me being simplistic I'm expecting an avalanche of Javas and Theenas to come up with complex and detailed examples of instrumentals with highly involved plots and sub plots.

But I just don't get it.