Loving The Lotus Tower

At first I was afraid, I was petrified.

I'm no Rajapaksa fan by any stretch of the imagination, so my first thoughts were wholly negative.
It was / is downright ugly; that hideous green and purple Chinese erection soaring into the Lankan sky.

For some time I've thought that Sri Lankans just don't do subtlety. From the delicious food, chock full of every spice and flavouring known to man, to clothing crammed with more colours and patterns than an accident in a rainbow factory subtlety is just not a fundamental Sri Lankan trait.

The Lotus Tower is the biggest example of this; massive, mutli coloured, flashing lights and, well just everything about it screams for attention. It's so gaudy I suspect even Singaporeans might object to it. Or Americans.

Most cities have a few iconic buildings, the kind that are recognised by people all over the world even if they've never been to the place. In London we've got the London Eye, the Houses of Parliament, the Gherkin. New York has the Empire State, the Chrysler Building, the apartment from Friends etc.

Colombo did have its twin towers, which have now been dwarfed by all the new ones coming up and I think the Altair, though residential, will prove to be a bit of an icon. But other than those I feel Colombo, though it has a damn good size portion of gorgeous buildings, has lacked in landmarks.

And the Lotus Tower in all its garishness is starting to change things.

You types who live in Colombo and know your way comfortably around won't appreciate this, but for me, a chap with the sense of direction of a singer without a decent drummer behind him, it's become a bit of a guiding light. Not a guiding light in the way C is to me of course, but a pretty important one nonetheless.

Pretty much wherever I am in Colombo, and parts of Europe, I look up and see the Lotus Tower and can figure out roughly which direction I need to go in. The other day it surprised me by popping into my eyeline as I came into the metropolis on the Expressway. It's there, lurking like a Sri Lankan Mother, permanently watching and making its presence felt but without calling every evening and asking silly questions.

It's still hideous, garish and attention seeking.

And I rather like it.

Perspectives

It was a normal Saturday morning in September 2015. Normal except for the fact that my Dad had just died. He actually passed at around 6am but, by the time all the official declarations had been done and the undertaker had arrived, it was around 9.30 when we carried his body out of the house into the hearse.

There was myself, both my brothers and the undertaker, who was giving us, the shocked sons, instructions on exactly how to negotiate two flights of stairs as well as a grieving wife, Granddaughter and daughter in law. My parents moved into that house when I was twelve, I know those stairs pretty intimately, as do my brothers, but that was the most challenging time I've descended down them.

Their house is opposite a small local shopping parade with a little car park attached and the hearse was parked directly in front of the house on the street. And one of the things I remember vividly is how, as we loaded my Dad into the vehicle, I looked around and saw people arriving in their cars, parking in the car park and walking to do their shopping.

I saw others come out of the shops with their goods, getting in their cars and driving off, maybe a bit pissed off because Tesco didn't have their favourite brand of butter. A few cars drove past us. We had just lost our Dad / Husband of fifty years / Grandfather and everyone else got on with their Saturday morning.

It has stayed with me; that massive lesson about perspectives and how every individual has their own universe that they inhabit. Some of us have overlapping bits, others don't.

The recent bombings in Sri Lanka have also illustrated this phenomenon in full. I got back to London last week on Thursday evening, four days after the attacks. In Sri Lanka, though thankfully I didn't suffer any loss of loved ones, I felt the pain and heartbreak that so many of you did. I still do.

But the mixed reactions I've had from different people in London have been another eye opener about perspectives.

Even the media seems to have largely stopped its reporting of the situation there. There are articles, obviously lots of us have our feeds tuned into Sri Lanka anyhow, but last week's attrocities in a brown country have become the electronic age's fish and chip wrapping very quickly.

Some people have been genuinely interested and empathetic with me about the situation. A few though, on hearing what happened and after expressing interest have then said "apart from that how was the holiday?"

Others, like a band mate last night, have listened and then just moved on to talking about the new guitar pedal they've got, as if what I was saying was just a topic of conversation, which it clearly was to them.

One person said to me that it just means that Sri Lanka is off his list of potential holiday destinations now. That was all it meant to him.

And that's the thing about the whole perspective business. Hardly anyone is wrong. They're all just different views of the same thing.

Makes me think though.

Thoughts from Colombo

I’m currently in Colombo, probably feeling like most people; a mixture of heartbreak, confusion, loss (for the many lives as well as the peace we’ve got used to) and, I’m sorry to say, relief that myself and my loved ones are okay.

I’m old enough to have lived through many terror related incidents, from being here in July ‘83 to living in London during the height of the IRA’s reign of terror to witnessing the more recent attacks in London, Christchurch and Paris.

C and myself were with some friends at The Kingsbury on Saturday evening. They were staying there and at one point we were having a poignant discussion about the Central Bank bombing, as one of them was working right there when it happened. It was the past. We felt like we were talking about a different Country. I took that picture from the rooftop bar of The Kingsbury looking at the Shangri La, with the Cinnamon Grand lurking somewhere in the distance. It was just another hot Colombo evening and I was just another person taking another picture.

We woke up yesterday morning to see news of the bombs, mixed with that early event confusion about exactly what had happened and where. Our friends messaged and told C that they were late for breakfast at The Kingsbury because she had been hiding Easter Eggs in their room for the kids. They were safe and had jumped into a taxi and escaped to the haven of his parents’ house.

That’s the thing about these events; so many of us have stories of close calls. A few months ago I was staying at the Shangri La, for a few days C and I had breakfast in that room. We were having dinner in the Cinnamon Grand a few nights ago. I was here with my Girls last year and we were doing the full on tourist trail. These events could have happened at any time, to anyone.

It feels to me like most Lankans have an old wound from the civil war. For each person that wound has healed to a differing degree. Yesterday’s events poked at that wound. Some people feel huge pain, some remain as stoic as ever and others want to sleep, just so that they don’t feel anything.

My best friend, a Brit in the UK, had his birthday on Saturday and, in the course of happy birthday messages, told me that he has decided to finally visit Sri Lanka next year with his wife and daughter. My youngest daughter K, whom you know well, is planning to spend a month here in July.

I just don’t know what to advise them.

I so love Sri Lanka. If anyone reads this blog anymore I do hope you understand that one thing.

I’m British, I’m Sri Lankan. And I feel the loss.

Off for a bit

I'm heading off to the Motherland for a sojourn. Nothing too spectacular, just a couple of weeks in the metropolis with C. I expect it will be pretty empty because of most of you fleeing to the more scenic areas for the new year.

We will talk when I'm back, or if I whack out a little post or two while I'm over there.

Bye then!

Pants.

I've been on a recent mission to upgrade my pants collection. And, for the benefit of any Americans, I really mean pants here, like you know, the things that your balls and willy actually are held in by, not trousers. And, for the benefit of Sri Lankans, when I say "trousers" I actually mean " a trouser".

Not that long ago I told you about my then new pants collection. Well it didn't seem that long ago, but a quick search on my blog has revealed that it was actually over four years ago. Since then I've added considerably to the collection, but the theme has remained one of Odel. There have been flowery ones, more striped ones and a generally good and colourful selection of undergarments have prevailed.

But recent visits to Colombo's finest (only) emporium have proved disappointing. It seems that these type of pants aren't around any more and I felt the need to update and upgrade. It was either that or wash them anyhow.

So the other day I could have been found lurking in mens' pants in Odel. The cheap bright ones were nowhere to be seen but there were plenty of nasty ones, the sort your Dad would wear, just not much in the way of my last collection. Before you could say "kids with jeans hanging low and showing their arse crack" I found myself browsing at those Calvin Klein ones.

I perused the options and settled on a sort of cross between a boxer short and Y front as my choice. The things were all boxed up with a photo of a muscular looking white bloke hung like a horse on each. I'm not one to fall for all this marketing hype, so merely paused to think about how much the chap looked like me before selecting about five or six pairs to buy.

Size, contrary to what they say, did matter. Trying on pants in most shops is not permitted; a great thing if you're concerned  about trying on a pair that Johnny Smelly had tried on and rejected twenty minutes ago, but a not so great thing if you're me trying to figure out what size you need.

I played the dangerous card and went for medium, knowing that small would have been a laughable option, not because of the size of my wedding tackle mind, and the only question was whether to go large or one down.

Off I went to queue at the checkouts and wait for the tourists in front of me to peer at their currency and try to figure out which notes were which and then pay for all that bargain clothing that they'd mostly end up never wearing anyhow. And a T shirt or two about saving dogs or something.  The checkout chap asked if I wanted them taken out of the boxes, to which I gave an affirmative. As a slightly serious aside isn't all this packaging just ridiculous? I'm sure I'm one of many who have no need for it and would rather see the environment protected in some small way.

A short while later and I was back at C's place trying them on. My first reaction was that they were a bit scratchy. I wondered whether this was because they were brand new and needed a wash to soften things up. Turns out I was right about that.

The choice of medium was perhaps not one of my best. There didn't seem to be a lot of room for manoeuvre and the waistband was making me do that thing stomach holding in thing that most middle aged blokes do when in the presence of
attractiveany women at all. Nevertheless I decided to give a pair a trial run out in public that evening.

I did, to discover that overall comfort was somewhat lacking. Not only that but I found my jeans sliding down to reveal the waist band of the pants, big Calvin Klein graphics and logo for all to see. Seriously I promise you I really didn't want this to happen but it did. I wasn't trying to look like Snoopy Snoopy Dog Dog or Sebastian Posingis or one of these sex gods, that's what happens when you wear these pant things. It's like it's built into their DNA or something.

So the next day I could have been spotted in that other place, Roma Four, buying a selection of almost definitely fake Paul Smith ones in a rather nice variety of colours in a size they call large.

I'm persisting with the Calvin Kleins but not as my everyday pant. I forgot to tell you earlier that being a drummer means that extended periods of playing, sitting there on the stool make me highly prone to what's technically known as "drummer's arse".

And drummer's arse means that high spec pants are often required, otherwise one can get home after an energetic band practice or gig and find all sorts of creatures and nasties nesting in there. It's so bad that sometimes I fail to even get a week of wear out of one pair of pants. Honestly I kid you not.

I live alone by the way.

On That Cartoon

I glanced at Groundviews yesterday and saw that some sort of girls' fight has broken out between Sanjana, David Blacker and DD. And, when I say "girls'" fight, I really mean a fight that girls wouldn't actually have.

If I've got it right (which is rare) then it's all because Groundviews, in this case the esteemed Mr Hattotuwa, called for the sacking of the cartoonist concerned, possibly his public hanging immediately after having his balls smeared with dog food and set upon by hungry canines.

Why? Because the cartoon has (was) deemed as insulting to women by Groundviews, as well as plenty of others.

Then, quicker than you can go and worship your mother every morning, DB and DD jump on the submit comment button and start a virtual fight with GV, along the lines of "how can you advocate free speech then say that things like this should be censored? And by the way my Mum's bigger than your Mum."

Before we know it it's handbags at twelve yards. If a real fight broke out between Sanjana, DB and DD I reckon Sanjana would emerge victorious. It's obvious really, he's the only one not weighed down by the ink of hundreds of tattoos and could run the fastest. The other two are a bit fat also.

The thing is the original Groundviews opinion wasn't about censorship, it was about taste, sexism and what's acceptable to the public to be published in a national newspaper. And, the cartoonist here just drew the cartoon. It's the editor's judgement that should be questioned.

My already limited understanding of the issue gets even more hazy next, but I think Groundviews then reviews its opinion on the cartoon, deciding that maybe its initial reaction was a bit harsh. I stand to be corrected, but with Tweets, Facebook, blogs and so many different types of media involved I just can't keep up.

If I'm right, then fair play to Sanjana. It takes an intelligent person to look at something and admit that perhaps they were wrong. If I'm wrong, then I won't admit it.

As for the cartoon itself, I just don't understand it. It's not really very funny and I'm continually confused by Sri Lanka's attitude towards gender and women. I mean really, people can leer at women, touch them up and do all sorts of things on buses while going home to worship the matriarch. And just about every Sri Lanka family has some sort of matriarch sitting there at the head, dishing out orders and perceived wisdom. Of course sometimes the matriarch is a man though.

Yes, the cartoon might be seen as degrading to women, but it's not as degrading as half the advertising in SL with its inherent sexism or many of the other behaviours that go on every day.

And strangely there's a whole load of blog posts saying nasty things about Sanjana that all have broken links, or it might be that Kottu's playing up.

Indi's got an opinion, though full of Americanisms like, and if you're bothered, you can read the explanation by the editor of Lakbima here.

I suppose that's it really. Oh I seem to have joined a punk band too, more about that later.

London, Lanka and Lamprais

So I'm back in the UK after a glorious two weeks in Serendib. Yesterday was a lucky bank holiday Monday. Bank holidays are a bit like Poya Days except they don't happen as often, the weather's always shit and we don't drink as much.

I had hoped that the extra day would give me a bit of time to get prepared for hitting the week with a bang. I had a friend's birthday lunch to go to and a rather hefty handful of songs I need to learn for a couple of band practices in the week. But no, that bloody cough, the one I seem to always get when faced with AC or a bombardment of fans, has descended on me again. In true Sri Lankan fashion I put myself on some antibiotics with absolutely no Doctors involved in the decision making process. Love it!

I caught the flight from Serendib at 2 AM on Sunday morning and it got into London about 8 AM. It's a lovely little flight time I tell you. The scheduling meant that I got in a full day in Colombo on Saturday, a bit of a luxurious one mind, but full to the brim.

It started with a massage, slightly strange, slightly different but a massage it was for sure. The place advertised and said that customers would first be examined by their resident Doctor before he recommended the appropriate treatment. Well he took the most cursory of looks at me and C, asked if we had any particular areas of concern, then rang a bell. The masseur turned up, received some instructions and off we went.

I had slipped a disc some weeks ago so asked if the chap would go a bit gently around that neck of the woods. He didn't. But I figure thirty or forty minutes is a long time and one can easily forget instructions in that gap.

A delicious Lamprais lunch followed. I'm not sure if I'm allowed to tell you this but Indi and Blacker asked me if I wanted to be a judge in Yamu's recent Lamprais review. I was kind of gutted to have to refuse. I mean, honours, to a Kalu Suddha like me at least, don't come much higher than a request like this. I've got those kids, a business, I play in a few bands and whatnot, but to be asked to be a judge in a review of Lamprais, at Barefoot no less, really genuinely felt like I'd arrived. Of course I had arrived, but I'd also left and gone down South for a few days, hence my refusal.

But, after reflecting on it a bit, I decided that it was a good thing I couldn't make it. You people who live in Sri Lanka, you who can eat Lamprais on demand, get discerning and have expert opinions along the lines of "well the plantain in that one was a bit sub standard" or "there should have been slightly less rice in that one".

To me, just about every single Lamprais is a delicious, delectable and usually unobtainable piece of luxury cuisine. I savour every mouthful, that warm mix of aromas, flavours and textures. And frankly, sticking me in as a judge would have been like asking a desperate thirty something virgin who has been trying to get laid all his life to star as the lead in a porn film.

I would have peaked too soon, stuffing myself with Lamprais at the early stages and being unable to judge that late entrants accurately. No, the job was far better done by the experts involved. Even Blacker, who pigged out a little bit from what I heard.

I have other stories to tell. I made a promise to a German bloke that I'd write a few more blog posts, but he also made me undertake not to write rubbish. This could be hard. I'm sure you can see my dilemma.

One other thing; the increase in metered tuk tuks is brilliant isn't it? Now we can jump in and avoid all that painful haggling and pretend walking away, with the knowledge that we'll pay the going rate for the journey. It's a good solution to a problem that I'm not sure I was even that aware of. I feel a bit for the drivers though as they can't rip off "generous" tourists as easily as they could before. Now they have to pretend the meter's not working or mug them or something.

Ah yes, one final thing, really. I bought a full set of new pants. Pants, not trousers I mean. Today I'm sporting a pair of the red Paul Smith ones. I'm not one hundred per cent sure on their authenticity. Well, I know that they're definitely real pants, I just don't know if they're real Paul Smith ones.

I haven't decided what I'll wear tomorrow but I'll keep you posted!

Fat Germans And Aircraft Seats

Hello, sorry about the recent radio silence. Things have been madly busy at work and play and that looks like continuing for a while. So please don't go getting your hopes up by thinking "Oh great RD's back with some regular posts so I'll have something to smile about during my day".

I must start by saying that I've got nothing against Germans per se. Okay they can lack a sense of humour and fun, but that Posingis fellow, the good looking photographer one, is as funny as they come. Sometimes I've even wondered if he might have some British blood there, he can be that funny.

And, if you want a fellow to wake up early and get you the best deckchair by putting his towel on it, then let's face it, you wouldn't ask a Sri Lankan or a Brit. The Lankan would amble over sometime after brunch, find an already occupied deckchair and grab it when the occupant nipped off for a minute. The Brit would look at you weirdly then swear and headbutt you. Or something. No, your Germans are perfect for this sort of thing.

There I was, on the plane flying back from Serendib a few weeks ago. At check in I asked, as I always do, whether it was a full flight and received an affirmative answer. It was one of those SriLankan flights that stop at the Maldives, usually pretty full from both Colombo to Male and from Male to London. Fucking tourists!

Just so you know I put that exclamation mark at the end of the last sentence very deliberately so that you saw I was using the word "fucking" as a swear word against tourists, not as a verb along the lines of tourists doing things along the sexual path. I always find witticisms are so much better after a full explanation.

But there I was. Sitting in my seat with a woman who seemed to have won first prize in the most boring companion on a long distance flight competition. ( I came second, before you ask) At first glance she wasn't worth a second glance. Practical and untrendy clothes that wouldn't have looked out of place on Mr Small, my Design and Technology teacher when I was at school. Comfortable trainers with velcro fastenings, a fleecy type of top and a similar hairstyle to Mr Small too.

No, she wasn't going to be a companion who I'd strike up a sparkling conversation with and then stay in touch with for the rest of our lives. Our brief chat confirmed this, with her telling me that she'd just been on a cycling holiday to Kerala, had enjoyed it but the only thing she couldn't abide was the whole eating with the fingers concept. It turned out that there were a few of her fellow Kerala cyclists scattered about the plane and they all looked as unappealingly square as my one. As if to confirm all my suspicions she had her cycling helmet attached to her hand luggage by some kind of special clip.

I settled myself. I've now got to the stage with flying these long distance journeys that I have some routines in terms of hand baggage, what I take out of my bag and what I put in the seat pocket etc, that make things much more comfortable and easy for me. I knew I wasn't going to introduce myself to the next door neighbour, that would have been deadly.

Not long after take off the Sri Lankan woman in front of me decided to recline her seat, fully. I've come to some conclusions about the whole reclining seats concept. If you turn left when you board the plane, as I've been lucky enough to do a few times, then you can recline your seat all over the show without even remotely affecting the person behind you.

However in Economy we're scum. That's pretty much the definition. We have no rights, no luxuries and are wise to have no expectations, particularly if we're flying with SriLankan Airlines, on which just having a seat that isn't broken with an entertainment console that functions are things that they'll soon be charging extra for.

And also, in Economy, there is no space. That's how it works. Yes, the ticket, for most Brit tourists who don't really have that much money, costs a lot of money. But that's a reflection of the distance travelled, not the luxury one should expect.

So, when the person in front of me reclines her seat fully and I only have a centimetre in which to move instead of the five centimetres when it wasn't reclined, I just make my own positional adjustments and get on with life. If I'm too tight / poor / stupid to fly Business Class then that's my problem.

As a kind and considerate chap though I always try to recline my own seat gradually, not that sudden press the button and whack it fully back thing that some do, often creating bad feeling. I tend to put mine back a bit, then a bit more some time later. Feel free to use this method too if you want, though it is my invention.

That's what I did. I did it partly because of the woman in front, partly because of a desire to recline and partly because the seat is made to do so.

There were two fat Germans sitting behind me. I knew they were fat because I'd seen them and I knew they were German because I, along with most others on the plane, had heard them. They were a couple, in the male and female way, and were exhibiting all the characteristics of a couple who'd never been on a flight before; ordering drinks continually and talking excitedly about plane related crap.

Not a few seconds after I'd put my seat back came German shouting along with a hard smack on the back of my seat. All of a sudden myself and the cycling woman were as British and united as can be imagined. A German! Shouting and banging just because I've reclined the seat that's supposed to recline! Good God! We both thought.

I knew that I couldn't let this lie. I was doing this for my country (Britain on this particular occasion) and there were principles at stake. I had to think quickly and come up with a retort that would shut them up and win the battle. My considerable years of experience, wit and finely developed and honed conversational skills came into play, all in a few quick seconds.

I turned round, glared at the fat woman and fired my weapon. So to speak. It wasn't a real weapon you understand, nor a willy metaphor.

"Sorry". Then I turned back and sat down.

But I'd said it with a lilt so it kind of went "Soh oh reee". It positively oozed with sarcasm, wit and intelligence. I'm pretty sure that it reminded my cyclist neighbour of Oscar Wilde. She didn't say so, but I could tell. It was the way she looked at me, smiled and made a face.

I kept my seat reclined and heard nothing from the fat Germans for the rest of the flight. Though the cyclist wasn't too keen on putting her seat back I made a point of doing it at least once, perhaps twice, during the flight.

And incidentally we used to have a girls' PE teacher at school called Miss Dexter who was tiny, probably about four foot tall, though quite fierce. She got married to another teacher; Mr Small.

Seriously. I kid you not.

But really, if the airline gives you reclining seats then why on earth do some people get so upset when a chap reclines it?

Am I The Only One?

Who doesn't find that Typo In Colombo thing that funny?

Some of the mistakes are quite side splitting. But, in general, it's something that makes me roll my eyes (not all the way round the back mind) far more than it makes me chuckle in a good old fashioned way.

What do you think?

Thoughts From A Stormy City

It's about four months since my last visit and it feels good to be back. Even in those four months there's a noticeable increase in prices, prices of just about everything. I wonder about this, on one hand it's good for the country, on the other it's not good for the people, the ones who have to pay the prices.

I was talking to an intelligent lady about profit the other day, about people being driven by it, by the pursuit of profit above all else. What do you think? Is it a stage that many go through, only to grow out of it with age and discover the joy of other more meaningful values? Or is it a sad sign of the times and the world we live in today?

As I write this rain and thunder lashes Colombo with that warmth and wetness that we just don't get in England. I'm looking over the city's skyline, from ten storeys up, and can see the sights and hear the sounds of the city. There's the continual horning, the splash of tyres on wet road and the distinctive two cylinder engined sound of the tuk tuks as they go about their business. Why do they call them Tuk tuks anyhow?

It's funny how rain affects the lives of people here so differently to in London. Here it's wet and it impacts the infrastructure much more, but the temperature means people don't feel physical discomfort so much. In the UK the rain is cold as well as being wet, but people wrap up more and go about their business. I guess a lot of that's to do with prevailing conditions and what have you.

I was talking to a Dane the other day and comparing British winters with the Danish versions. I told her that it's all a bit shit in England when it snows, whereas in Danmark they're geared up for it and things continue more or less as normal, just with snow as a backdrop. It's the same sort of thing I suppose.

This week I've been wearing a lot of Paul Smith, just saying. And Superdry of course.

I've been pondering on the missing "the". And how Sri Lankan English omits the word from everyday use so frequently. People here "go to office" instead of "the office" and have many other situations in which the "the" has gone missing. Why? Where is it? I suspect there may be a stockpile of them, probably somewhere on the way to the airport there.

That's it really, I'm sure I'll see you around in the next few days.

Lately In The Political Lankanosphere....

If all has gone according to plan you'll be able to look at my mindmap above and see the structure of this post. It might be on the left though, I haven't decided yet.

It's a complicated mindmap, there are links, lines and bubbles all over the shop and even I, who sometimes can read my own handwriting, find it hard to get to grips with.

The crux of the matter is that the Lankanosphere has suddenly launched itself into a round of politics and political posts, the likes of which we haven't seen for some time.

To quote Jack Point

"After a very long sojourn, politics seems to have returned to the local blogosphere. What is more interesting is that it has sparked some reasonable debate, something that has been missing for a long time. "

Where and when did it all start? My thoughts are that a lot of it was catalysed by both The Killing Fields and Sangakkara's Cowdrey lecture. I'm uncertain how things began in the Sri Lankan blogosphere, but certainly the first post that caught my attention, very probably yours, was this one, by Indi. Entitled "The War Is Over. Tell Your Friends" it created lots of feeling.

The main theme of it can be summed up in this quote:

"For a long time Sri Lanka was defined only within the war frame. Indeed, many local people/publications (like Groundviews) have trouble adjusting to a post-war mindset. They’re still all war all the time while the average Sri Lankan is like, ‘breakfast?’"

Indi then tried to prove his theory with some of those word cloud things, showing the most commonly used words on some websites, including Groundviews. A bit of a bitch fight between Indi and Sanjana threatened to break out but nothing came of it really. Disappointing. I'd quite like to see a proper physical fight break out. In fight between the two of them they're both so lacking in the Chuck Norris / James Bond / Sly Stallone stakes that I suspect they'd both lose. David Blacker would probably win without being in it or even being near the scene.

And lots of people, including me, took a different view to Indi. Some commented on Indi's blog, some wrote posts.

I wrote this little one and it generated a bit of discussion too. It seemed to annoy a lot of intelligent people, which wasn't my intention. DD threw all his toys out of his pram and left me staring at my monitor in disbelief with some of the things he said. I put it down to the fact that he must have had a particularly busy week dreaming about killing muggers. Muggers that is, who sound like Dick van Dyke trying to do cockney.

"Cor blimey guv'nor, I'm a cockney don't you know, now hand over yer frickin' wallet. I've got a chimney to sweep."

I do get frustrated when I see the diaspora being tarred with one brush, as I tried to explain in this later post. One of the ironies is that I was criticised for tarring people with one brush with what I said.

Then, with my apologies if I haven't got the chronology totally accurate, we had the great Indi vs Guru debate on Al Jazeera. It was a bit of a let down when Indi's connection got lost for an important chunk of the segment, but it was interesting. Many thought that, in the win / lose context it was billed, Guru emerged as the clear winner. I agree, yet feel disappointed that it had to be billed and presented in that context. Indi has said on too many platforms to link to that he was trying to reframe the context of the debate rather than engage in it.

A couple of now rare yet much welcomed voices entered the arena. First we had Electra, showing us that she's still around and lurking with intent. This post was a very specific response to Indi as well. When I first read it I thought that Electra has said some similar things to my thoughts, just with bags full of intelligence, eloquence and detailed knowledge that I don't possess. Sometimes I wish I wasn't so simple.

I smiled to myself at the fact that a load of comments have appeared on Electra's post advertising cheap made in China sportswear sites.

And Cerno chipped in his two cent's worth too. He says:

"All those clever arguments seem far removed in the un air-conditioned reality live by most Sri Lankans (I’m only partially air conditioned). The war and its political fault lines (both current and historical) seems far away from the grinding business of life."

Which I suppose is one of the key points that many people are trying to say; that while some go on about sanctions, inquiries, international bodies and punishment, many in Sri Lanka are trying to deal with some very harsh realities of daily life.

I know only too well about these day to day trials and tribulations. I was looking at the price of Dominic Sansoni's new bags in Barefoot only the other day and thinking that there must be a small percentage of the population who can't even afford basics like these.

There's an element to Cerno's post that I don't understand; it;s the bit when he talks about the irrelevance to the Sri Lankan blogsphere. I'm unsure if Cerno is saying that the Lankanosphere is pissing in the wind by talking politics or that us bloggers aren't interested in SL politics. If it's the former, then I see it differently, but I'll come to that at the end. If Alanis Morissette writes another song, perhaps calling it "Ironic two" she should bung this line in it:

"That Cerno, ooh ooh,

Could have the time ooh ooh,

to write a blog post, ooh ooh,

saying that he envies those who ooh ooh,

find the time to blog (big drum fill here)"

Jack Point, the most serious court jester to ever exist, put out this post which told us his thoughts on things. He was one of the many who reminded us of the evil, terror and despicable actions of the LTTE. For what it's worth I reckon these actions should be remembered by all, to help put things in perspective.

Groundviews published a bit of a round up of the state of play at the time, specifically on the "Sri Lankan identity and race relations" theme that has run consistently while everything else has been going on.

Meanwhile over on the all comments are closed blog owned by Rajiva Wijesinha, the man who makes my accent sound heavily Sri Lankan, things are carrying on as normal. His approach, of attempting to shatter the credibility into a zillion pieces of anyone or any institution that deigns to criticise the GoSL, continues.

Finally, let me tell you my current concluding thoughts. These are subject to change without notice.

Yes, the war is over. No, the memories and consequences of it are not and they need to be dealt with.

Talk, when constructive and positive, is good and needed. Someone told me the other day that my opinion, me saying things, won't change anything. I agree. But someone, somewhere will be the person with the millionth or billionth opinion, blog, comment or statement that just might break the camel's back and cause change.

Apologies for the long post, the jewellery shop's worth of links and the crazy jumble of fonts and quotes. One of these days I really must change over to Wordpress!

RD

Colombo Stories.

I heard this story the other day and thought of you. I'm not allowed to name names and place places but I can give you the gen. gist of things.

So, there's one of these clubs in Colombo, a nameless one, though it's not actually nameless, just that I can't go revealing it like an arse. And, at a committee meeting the other day, there was a murmur of discontent, a little rumble if you like. While I'm here I must mention this. Every time I write or read the word "committee" I'm surprised at the number of pairs of double letters in it. Three sets of them in such a short word, I wonder if it's a record of some sort.

Anyhow, I digress. There was a rumble of discontent and it was centred around the suspicion that the aforenotmentioned club might be selling watered down drinks.

The reason for the allegations?

There's a group of four or five oldish men (you know the sort) who drink at this place every Tuesday evening and on Thursdays the same group drink at a place in Mount.

Recently they've realised, that whereas it takes six shots for them to get pissed at the aforenotmentioned club on a Tuesday, they only need four shots each to achieve the same at Mount on a Thursday.

It's more or less a scientifically proven conclusion.

It made me chuckle. Keep it quiet though.

The Sexy Lounge Lizards

.....continued from here

They caught my attention immediately. Probably aided by the fact that I was watching everyone with the eye of a bored bloke who might then write about them with the hope that a load of strangers will read his words. But that's not important.

They were two adults and a child, white and walking with an unusual combination of style and humility. The entered the lounge and sat a few seats away from me. They were cumulatively trendy without the look being over the top.

He wore all black, jeans and a shirt thing with white Converse style trainers, but they weren't Converse, they were even trendier.

She wore blue jeans, slightly faded, with a white top and white Converse hi tops. She had blonde hair and looked a bit like Keira Knightley with more curves and a few more years. I tried not to drool. It was hard enough to concentrate on staring.

I reckon they were in their early thirties.

The child; a boy I believe the species was, looked about three years old, maybe ten, I'm never sure with kids' ages. The thing was dressed casually yet clearly with clothes chosen by its style conscious 'rents. Little jeans and a child's pair of Vans trainers, I kid you not.

What struck me about this family were several things. First was that they looked comfortable and relaxed. They were definitely tourists. They wore good looking clothes but they didn't look as if they were trying too hard. From the way I've described them above you've possibly got the impression that they looked like a trio of white trashy clothes horses strutting around arrogantly.

They didn't at all. Each of them showed the way to wear good looking and a la mode clothing, though I'm certain the child didn't have much choice in the matter. They appeared so relaxed and normal, as if they'd thrown on the first items of clothing they could find that day.

The second thing was that they just couldn't have been British, which kind of saddened me. Generally I like the sense of style that many more fashion conscious Brits demonstrate, even somewhat optimistically counting myself as one. But the sad fact is that the average holiday making young family age Brit in Sri Lanka is the sort who looks to the Rooneys as role models.

No, they had to be Scandinavian, or maybe even worse. Maybe they were Italian.

I continued my observations until we boarded the plane.

I liked them even more at this point. You know when they ask for old people, those with special needs and people with young children to board first? And there's always an old person or two in a wheelchair, some families with young kids and a few Sri Lankans who have pretended not to hear or who have attempted to pass off their thirty something year old civil engineer son as a small child.

Well this couple, I'll have to come up with a name for them, didn't attempt to board, despite the clear and indisputable evidence of a young child. I liked that. Unless it was because they didn't understand the English.

At some point I strolled away to board the majestic ship of the skies that is a SriLankan Airlines Airbus A340. I took my seat, a window one, and looked to my left at the centre aisle next to me. Can you guess who was sitting there? Yes, you've got it in one. It was the four members of Abba, without their manager Stig Anderson, who sadly died of course in 1997.

I jest. It wasn't Abba, but it was them, the sexy Scandinavian family, possibly Italian.

On my left, on the other side of the aisle, was Mr Style, to the other side of him were his wife and child. (assumptions I know, but probably reasonable ones) In the name of science I continued my observing.

He wore black horn rimmed glasses, though I couldn't tell if they had real or clear lenses. On his left wrist was a black leather bracelet with a silver fastening device. He wore a wedding ring and a chunky silver ring on his right hand. He had no watch, a fact I found interesting. Other than that I paid scant attention. Ah yes, his footwear was these beauties. I suppose I'll have to get some now.

I heard snippets of their conversation. It provided me with the biggest sense of loss, of disappointment nay, that I've experienced in a long time, possibly since England got their arses well and truly kicked into oblivion by Germany in the last world cup.

They weren't Scandinavian. They were only FRENCH!!! Would you believe it? The most stylish couple in the world are French. Even now, as I type this from the sanctity of my desk a week or so after the event, it makes me reel a little.

The flight passed and I slept, ate, listened to some music and read some words on the Kindle. all while keeping my beedy eye on the glamorous trio. The wife and child were on the far side so I only saw them sporadically. But this child, it has to be said, was so well behaved that it was untrue.

There wasn't a single tantrum, not even a cry for the whole trip. He played with a toy truck at one point. I was impressed, it was a trailer thing that I would have liked to look at in more detail but I didn't want to intrude. He watched some DVDs on a portable player and generally gave the impression of a cool kid.

At one point the woman took off her Converse Hi tops to sleep. I must admit that I was a tad disappointed in her choice of sock; it was something decidedly normal, but she may not have realised the level of scrutiny she'd be under at the time of choosing. Often there's a logical explanation for these mistakes.

Me and the chap exchanged a few smiles and pleasantries on the flight. I'm fundamentally against striking up conversations on long flights with strangers for fear of ending up with one's very own in flight stalker, but I was so taken that I nearly made an exception for him.

After we'd landed, when we were queuing in the passport control area I had a brief word, complimenting them on the behaviour of their son. They seemed touched by my words and genuinely pleasant.

Bastards.

Fucking cool bastards.

Sexy fucking lounge lizard cool bastards.

"Where You Learn"

So many things about this picture and sign bother me. I don't know where to start. Really.

Why:

the speech marks
the dots before the "where"
the wholly meaningless slogan
would a parent be impressed by this enough to think that they might send their child there.

Any more?

So Long Serendib.....

My last few hours on the island of my heritage are here and it's been a gorgeous near couple of weeks.

The sojourn to Arugam Bay was everything I envisaged. The journey interesting and the destination wonderfully relaxing and beautiful.

I've spent more time with Jerome Speldewinde in recent days than a chap would care to imagine, but he's cool, in a sort of husky voiced mooching around in his Speedos sort of way. I have stories to tell about the Spellbinder fellow and his body that will make you ponder.

Sunday afternoon, that's yesterday to those reading this today, saw me and C at the jazz at Barefoot. The atmosphere was chilled, the temperature was warm and the company was as cool and sexy as it gets. I got to play three songs with the band, hopefully meaning that David Blacker and Dominic Sansoni now realise I can actually play the drums, not just talk about it!

It feels a bit sad to be going, but it will of course be great to see the girls and give them their friendship bracelets that I bought. I'm not allowed to buy clothes for them, no doubt because I'm just way too cool.

I found a hairdresser, just opposite Castle St Hospital in Rajagiriya, and have now had two number one clipper sessions there. It wouldn't be worthy of a mention except for my discovery that the owner is a drummer. The revelation saw both of us get our phones out and show each other pictures of our kits, comparing cymbals and gigs and whatnot. C said I'm a saddo.

I missed Java Jones and was annoyed with myself when I heard that he was here in the metropolis last week. Sorry Java, I assumed you were up in the hills and promise to call you next time I'm here, which won't be long I'm sure.

My flight is at 6 AM tomorrow morning and my jury's out on whether it's a good flight time or a crap one. On the positive side it gives me a full day and evening here. On the negative side it means I need to stay up as there's no point going to bed, so might arrive in London more knackered than a sleepy town that's just taken some tranquilisers then sat in some sea air with a couple of cold beers for a few hours.

Thank you to all my Sri Lankan friends for their kindness, hospitality, drums and warmth. I will return before you even have time to wonder if I've gone. That's not a promise, more of a threat.

RD

Hot, Hot Heat, Strings, Photo Blogs and Random Things

It's fucking hot here. But I like that. It gives me a chance to wear my Havaianas flip flops, complete with their Brazilian flag, as I'm partial to a Brazilian.

WiFi is a slight issue, with C's one being kaput, so I'm making use of wireless wherever I can.

Monday sees us heading to Arugam Bay, somewhere I've never been, and I think I'm as excited about the cross country journey as I am about the destination. That's perfection, isn't it? A great journey as well as arriving at a special destination. It's a metaphor for life, or should that be a metaphor life?

The Vesak lights and lanterns, people and vehicles are out in full force. I've never actually witnessed it before and it is genuinely mental, a reminder that the word "subtlety" and Sri Lankaness are uncomfortable bedfellows. The lights I can take or leave quite happily, but watching the people watching the lights has got my attention.

Vanloads of villagers, dressed in their Sunday best, singing and smiling. Fathers holding little kids and other children fast asleep have all caught me.

I went to that exhibition of photographs of Sri Pada last night, by Ian Lockwood. I know not much about the Lockwood chap but he's taken some stunningly memorable images. They're on display at the Barefoot Gallery if you fancy taking a look.

Dinner at Green Cabin afterwards saw me eat about twenty string hoppers. Fifteen white ones of my own then I had to finish off C's, which were red, but I made do. It was my all time favourite meal; white strings, prawn curry, pol sambol, white potato curry with kiri hodi, so that's my excuse, not that I need one, as I'll say to the Doctor next time we talk about my blood sugar and cholestrol.

My picture has made it to Naz Sansoni's Image a day blog, something I'm quite chuffed about. C is floating about in the background too, always a worrying thing, just ask The Auf.

That's it for now.

Oh yeah, anyone know where I can get a good head shave, clippered, number one?

The Morning After the Morning After....

There's not much that can be said, especially by a chap like me who knows bugger all about cricket, that hasn't been said already.

The build up before the match was mostly about trying to find a suitable venue for the day's viewing. I googled, then I googled some more, and failed to find a pub or bar that was pushing a Lankan event for the day. If I was Indian life would have been sorted, with about a million pubs in Southall and other nearby places promising positive and fun mayhem.

Luckily I'm not Indian, but that's another matter.

At the last minute we (that's me and C to you) heard of a thing going on in a pub, a Sri Lankan thing, at least a gathering of the clans, the Lankan clans. We headed there, listening to the first ten or so overs of the match on the radio as we drove.

As we walked into the pub we were greeted by a sea of dark blue, flags, horns and that uniquely Sri Lankan smell of short eats. Even I, with my legendary status, didn't think that the horns and flags were for me. No, we had walked into the perfect out of Sri Lanka setting to watch the match.

We found our friends, never hard in these sort of situations, got some drinks in and settled down with those optimistic thoughts all of us had at that point. It seems so long ago now doesn't it?

I called Academic Bro and The Auf to see if they fancied joining us. Academic Bro was prevented from doing so by a Sri Lankan mother, the Auf was different and headed over from his lair in East London with a burst of speed that I wish had been displayed by the Lankan fielders on the day.

He strolled in after a bit, signed a few autographs and peeled off his jacket to reveal his SL cricket shirt. I don't own one so had gone for a Superdry shirt in what I thought was the right shade of blue, being faithful to that whole "wear blue to show your support for Sri Lanka" facebook campaign.

We got on with the serious business of watching. I was mightily chuffed in that we'd found the perfect venue. There was a stall at the front of the pub selling Lankan short eats. There was kadala, there were beef chinese rolls, cutlets, chocolate biscuit pudding and a full rice and curry option. Over the course of a few hours I made sure I ate everything, whereas C did that really bloody annoying woman thing; the one where they say they don't want you to buy them anything, then steam into your portion and eat about two thirds of it.

The crowd was good natured, even the few Indians in the pub were okay and there was a PA system that pumped out baila or Indian music depending on what had just happened. After we'd finished batting we danced, we drank, we sang, clapped and cheered. Optimism reigned supreme.

Then the Indians batted.

And we lost.

I started the day wishing I was in Colombo to witness it. By the end it didn't seem to matter. Had we won it all would have been so different.

And you know what?

I don't claim to be any sort of authority on cricket, but I reckon we lost it in our fielding. There was something lackadaisical and half hearted about it. We seemed to lack an urgency and never kicked things up into the next gear.

As I said on facebook.

Fuck.

This, That And Some

When you've reached legendary status in the Lankanosphere been blogging for a hell of a long time things can start to tail off a bit.

It worries me. Is this the beginning of the end? Will I eventually blog so infrequently that no one will read anyhow? Is Facebook taking over the world? Are blogs being superceded by Twitter and Facebook? Was "superceded" spelled correctly? Should I ask more questions?

These are some of the things going through my mind. And, as all you bloggers know, there comes a point where you can't be arsed to sit down and write a blog post. Unless of course you're an intellectual like The Auf, then you can write and talk endlessly about world politics and brainy things.

So, in a random way, here are some odds and sods that have been happening and have caught my eye and also a few snippets I've been up to.

Two new blog related things have grabbed me. Firstly, perhaps secondly but I'm going to write about it first, there's Drama Queen with her poignant and constructive initiative. I can best describe it as a campaign to increase awareness of the amount of violence against women in Sri Lanka. DQ tells us, and I have no reason to doubt her but can't verify the fact myself, that sixty percent of women in Sri Lanka have suffered from some form of domestic violence in their homes.

Yes, you read it right. Sixty percent!! That's almost six out of ten. Seriously it's a statistic that disappointed me yet, when I thought about it, didn't surprise me. Life shouldn't be like that and you too can do something about it. There's a Facebook group here that you can join or you can get in touch with DQ on her blog. The chances are that you probably know her anyhow. Do it. Or DQ'll come round and bust your balls and smother them in fish.

On the lighter side of life Naz Sansoni, one of Dominic Sansoni's daughters, has started a new photoblog. It's called "An Image a Day" and it pretty much does what it says on the tin. I've seen these people doing 365 images in a year and whatnot. My own version is called "A few photos put up on various social sites throughout a year or so" and seems to be taking off nicely.

Naz's new place depicts photographs of random things that go on in her life, much of which is Barefoot centred. There are people, places, things and baths. If a photoblog could be classed as honest then this would be one. Why? I dunno really, it just strikes me like that.

SL2G, the diasporic group I told you about, held our Talking Pictures photo event a couple of weeks ago and it was a resounding success. Attendance was, well like, huge and a good, yet I hope meaningful, time was had by all. In a matter of mere days we'll have a Flickr site and more info up online to show you what happened and exactly what The Auf really looks like. You'll love the first bit and be scared at the second.

I've been mamboing. My new drum tutor has moved me into the Latin arena, which sounds a bit gladiatorial but isn't at all. The mambo has been the first Latin groove to suffer at the hands of the RD drum skills. If you turn up at RD Towers any evening you're likely to hear the sounds of Tito Puente's Japan Mambo with me attempting to drum along with any one of the about eight different mambo patterns I'm learning.

It all sounds a bit like a bull in a china drum shop at the moment but progress in these things is always slow and sure but enjoyable. Tito Puente, were he still alive, would be turning in his grave and demanding to be let out. Then he'd go straight round to my place and beat seven shades of shit out of me. Then I'd dress up as a woman and get in touch with Drama Queen and tell her all about it. Then she'd go round to his place and beat the crap out of him after smothering his balls with fish. Then he'd be sorry. I'm doing my best after all.

Tomorrow, possibly today if you're reading this tomorrow, I'm test driving a new car. I won't tell you what it is yet as things are a bit uncertain. But the test drive is going to start with me taking my bass drum out of my current car and seeing if it will fit in the new one. If it does, then we move onto step two. Then the further steps, involving things like discovering I can't afford it but figuring what the hell I'll buy it anyhow. It's exciting, yet sometimes I wish I were a lead singer who only ever had to worry about remembering a microphone stand and perhaps a tambourine or two.

The gym is my new friend and I go there about two or three times a week, sometimes even doing some exercise there too. There's one weird blonde girl who always seems to be there when I am. I thought this was strange until I realised that she could be saying exactly the same thing about me.

That's about all I can think of. Oh yes, the mindmap experiment continues with eagerness and interest. I think it's improving my enjoyment of day to day life, something I must class as a positive thing.

I feel the beginnings of manflu coming on. There's nothing more serious but I'll do my best to fight off a full scale attack of the much dreaded illness. I'll leave you with a bit of advice; if you buy tickets for a dinner at a literary festival then try not to arrive an hour late and expect to be welcomed as if you're Jesus himself returning to play in goal for FC Barcelona.

Laters all

RD x

The Most Dangerous Place In The World

The internet's quite useful. It gives us access to oodles of information, brazilians of things that we'd otherwise have to go to a library or ask an intelligent person about. Yet sometimes, just now and again, we all like a bit of the old fashioned stuff, a bit of paper and ink, a touch of tactileness and a smatter of tangibility.

Which is why I often find myself reading a newspaper, a proper hard one, made from newspaper. One without clickable links, without a place where I can leave a comment and with proper adverts for the most dodgy of things, like husbands. And one of my occasional pleasures is to glance through one of the English language Sri Lankan dailies, most commonly while taking a poo. I don't meant stealing one, I mean doing one.

The Lankan papers are different to the British dailies, which are I'm sure different to all other ones too. The joys of Singlish ring out loudly from any English language Lankan daily and I love to read and listen to my brain saying the words in a Sri Lankan accent. The blogs, the Lankanosphere, Facebook and the virtual Sri Lankan press keep me informed in a what's the word on the street sort of way and the hard copy newspapers also keep me informed, just in a strangely different, what's the smell on the street sort of way.

It was a couple of weeks ago. C had gone off to Taiwan on a shoot and I pottered around Colombo doing my thing. At breakfast, over a quiet string hopper with chicken curry and parippu, I opened The Island. I perused the articles and poured through the first fifteen or so pages on how great the government is and how evil the west is. Then I came to a page called "Provincial News" and glanced at a picture.

This wasn't just any picture. No, it was a crap one, one of those that you peer at through squinting eyes, to try to figure out what the hell it's all about. So I did exactly that, I peered and tried to figure out what the hell it was all about. It seemed to show a road. There was a clock tower in the background, some random pedestrians and some even more random vehicles.

I like the way many Lankan newspapers practice the art of placing a caption so that it's hard to spot, it makes browsing a paper far more adventurous and exciting than in other parts of the world. When I found one it told me that it was a road in Horana and that the locals are clamouring to get their zebra crossing, the one that had disappeared from the aforementioned point in the road, to be reinstated. Apparently the lack of crossing was making the act of crossing the road a dangerous one. I smirked, even though I'd given up smirking a long time ago.

Above this was another small article, this time telling the sad story of a driver appearing in court after killing a person on a zebra crossing. The driver's defence was that he had been approaching the crossing and, on seeing a pedestrian in front of him on the crossing, had panicked and pressed the accelerator instead of the brake, killing the poor pedestrian.

Now the way it works in the UK and in many other countries is that a zebra crossing is sacresant. If a person is on one then they have right of way, but more than that, if a person is waiting to cross it's usually considered bad form if a driver doesn't stop and let them go. It's so extreme here in England that, should a person be on one and a car coming in the other direction fails to stop, there might even be a raised voice or an angry shrug, serious stuff for Brits.

If a war broke out within the UK people could flee to safety in churches and other holy places but they could also camp out on zebra crossings with the knowledge that they're safe as can be. Unless of course the war was against Sri Lanka.

I read and reread the article. Yes it did say what I thought it said; that a driver had got flustered and confused and hit the wrong pedal. Perhaps it's the yellow stripes that causes this. Whoever heard of a yellow and black zebra anyway?

I remember back in the day when I was married. I used to have nightmares about the girls and their mother attempting to cross on a Lankan zebra crossing and expecting the traffic to stop for them, perhaps making the potentially fatal mistake of expecting one car to slow down while it was overtaking another car on a crossing, just in case there was someone attempting to make their way across the road.

I think I used the word "cross" or "crossing" way too many times in that sentence. These things make me very cross. And predictable.

And something that never ceases to amaze me is the code of conduct on a Lankan pedestrian crossing. People tread precariously, there's no marching with confidence and the knowledge that vehicles are going to stop as if you're Superman pointing a laser beam at them. That dance takes place, the one we're all familiar with. There's posturing and posing and all sorts of footwork that's only usually seen in the dancing at Jazz Unlimited when that Speldewinde fellow's doing his thing.

Then, when all else fails, when there's no way left to solve the situation, there's a last resort, a definitive way in which to get the vehicle to stop. It's when the pedestrian puts his or her hand out. You know the thing; the arm at waist height with the hand stuck out at about ninety degrees and the very slightest and most imperceptible to all but a Sri Lankan eye of finger movements. That, my friends, makes any traffic stop immediately. Unless the driver gets flustered.

I glanced again at the article about the residents of Horana wanting their crossing back, then at the piece about the driver pressing the wrong pedal. Yes, I thought. They're mad.

A Sri Lankan zebra crossing has to be the most dangerous place in the world.

Keep Calm And Carry On

So I'm back and this post comes to you from the familiar environs of my desk and my office. Familiar to me that is, not you.

I got in early yesterday morning and had most of Sunday to unpack and get settled, ready for another Monday, another week and another month. My Barefoot journal is full to the brim, not that journals actually have brims, with mind maps of my adventures, my thoughts and my experiences in the motherland in the last two weeks. From meeting a particular person who was just the most amazing dancer to getting thoroughly pissed off by the way in which I feel much of the Lankan tourism industry is shamelessly raping the average tourist, it's all there.

Some of it I'll share with you in the days and weeks to come, some I'll keep to myself and only talk to friends about, for fear of the old "he's not a true Sri Lankan if he's that critical" thing that we know and love.

Of course I'm not a one hundred per cent true Sri Lankan either. I live here in London and I want to. Coming back here this time I felt as if I was leaving one home; the one of madness, chaos, corruption and knowing someone and arriving at another home; the one of order, systems, predictability and middleness.

What do I mean by "middleness"? I mean that in Sri Lanka, if you know the right person or have the right connections, you can get things done, often very quickly, more quickly than here in the UK. But, if you don't have the connections, you join the queue. And it's a very slow and cumbersome queue.

Here in Blighty knowing a person rarely makes a difference. Most of us get a middleness in the service we receive regardless of who we are. We get worse than the man in Lanka who knows someone but, as a default, we also get better than that chap in the queue.

This time I quite liked returning to that middleness, feeling a bit worn down by some of the ways in which I was treated by my hotel and surroundings in Sri Lanka. Such is life and I also feel immensely privileged that I'm one of the many with my heritage in Serendib and that I'm increasingly at home there.

It's also funny to see people complaining about the weather there. Here I sit and it's two and a half degrees outside. I'm quite lucky in that my body is doing that thing, you know the thing where being in a tropical country is like having a hot bath and your body retains the heat, so I'm feeling okay. But it's cold and I'd swap some of this dreary West London coldness for some of your much better quality Colombo coldness at the drop of a hat. Or a scarf even.

SL2G? Did I tell you about that?

We've got a really great photo exhibition thing, called "Talking Pictures - Connecting With Sri Lanka". It's on the 8th February at the East Gallery in Brick Lane and it promises to be a lively and rather brilliant evening of stimulating discussion around a set of photographs centred around our connections with Sri Lanka. Get in touch if you'd like to know more, or find SL2G on Facebook.

I must go now. I've got songs to learn, a new chap starting today and jetlag to be getting on with too.