A Nice Little Bit Of K Time

I'm sure I'm not the first or the last divorced Dad to wish I could have some more time with my kids and, now that they're fifteen and seventeen I'm also aware that, whether their parents are divorced or not, the last thing they want to do is to spend time with either of them anyhow. No, the only thing that matters, mostly, to teenage kids, is spending time with their friends.

Four years down the road though, I still find myself pining to be able to tuck them up, to say goodnight and to have them around to get angry with. Except on Wednesdays and alternate Fridays of course.

But one of the positives is that I appreciate time with them that much more, with every hour and snatched minute feeling precious to me. More often than not the girls just take things in their stride, though I can see that it's also hard for them at times. I'm sure it's hard in different ways for their mother too, such is the shadow of divorce and its after effects.

As they've got older the time they spend with me has become less organised and official. These days the "official" days happen when they're free, or they're mixed with them seeing their friends. Often they won't come to mine because of social stuff they've got going on and, though it's a bit of a bummer for me, I figure that's just part of them getting older.

The other side of that coin is that they pop in now and again and we can occasionally get to do things on an ad hoc basis if it suits. Fortunately for me their mother is very easy going about these sort of things and lets them do things they want to. Sometimes I hear horror stories about the behaviour of ex wives and realise that I'm quite lucky.

And another thing I've realised is that it's important to try to get time alone with each of the girls, as well as time with them both together. When you're all living together you never think about this sort of stuff, it just happens. But post divorce I've begun to see that the dynamics when I'm alone with either A or K are very different to when the three of us are together. It's important to try to nurture the one on one time without taking away from the three of us time.

This weekend A had gone off to the Reading festival, which is a music festival in the town of Reading, not a get together when they read books. Just so you know. So, on Saturday I texted K and asked her if she wanted to come with me to visit my parents on Sunday. She replied in the affirmative, which pleased and slightly surprised me.

I drove over to collect her at almost the appointed time. It was confusing. I had said twelve, then texted her to say twelve thirty, then arrived at twelve fifteen. She wasn't ready and my experience suggests that she wouldn't have been ready whenever I'd arrived. I waited around for a few minutes while she "did her hair" and then we set off.

She'd asked if we could stop off at two places en route; a friend's house to deposit a jumper and then a shop where she could buy a sketch pad for her art homework. We did both, then finally headed off to my parents'. The short car journey was punctuated by K's constant flicking through the radio stations in search of music that she approves of. It's incessant with her, even when she finds a song she likes it's unusual that she listens to the whole thing before changing channels in search of the next.

It's also a reflection of her approach to life; a continuing search for the next thing to see or do. Or eat. There's no rest with her, it's all go, go, go.

Our arrival was a surprise for the 'rents, a pleasant one I think.

We got comfortable and settled ourselves. It was to be a few hours of general hanging around, nothing special, just some sitting there and spending time with each other, hopefully all happy in our respective worlds. K googled for some pictures of Rambutans to draw for her art project and proceeded to draw, I sat and fended off the usual line of interrogation from my Mum and my Dad did his usual and ignored everything.

Some lunch was consumed, more hanging was done and, at around four o'clock we started to say our goodbyes. We set off again, this time heading for my office, as I had my drums in the car and wanted to leave them there. It's a few years since A or K have been to my office and I was quite excited about the prospect of K being there again. When they were small they used to come there fairly often and both have memories of the people, of going to Toys R Us, which is just opposite, and eating McDonalds for lunch.

The journey comprised of more radio channel surfing and a farting competition. Frankly I think it was unfair, as farting whilst driving is actually quite hard, well the lifting your cheeks thing to let it out is. The smells in the car were pretty repulsive, even if I say it myself. I lost, but took the loss with maturity.

We got to my work and K went into the warehouse and began to "scoot" around it on one of the big cages on wheels we have there. She's fifteen, but this was like uninhibited childishness. I liked it, yet was slightly wary on behalf of the contents of the warehouse, a worry that proved quite worthwhile when K collided with a large table and I had to readjust things rather rapidly.

After some more messing around and some unloading of drum kit we set off again, this time heading to drop K home. The half hour journey was punctuated by yet more channel surfing but thankfully no farting competition. We didn't talk much, both being a bit tired and happy to not say too much. We pulled up, kissed goodbye and K went in and I went home.

I spent most of the evening feeling nicely content, something that was a bit of a surprise. I'd really enjoyed the mellow chilling with K and felt happy that she was happy to spend the time, that one on one time, with me.

My day was complete when I got a phone call from A a bit later on. She was at the Reading festival and calling me so I could hear Muse, one of our favourite bands, start their set. The sound was too muffled for me to pick out anything, but I'd heard A talking enough to know what it was. I was chuffed that she'd thought of me.

All in all it was a damn fine day.

My How They Grow!

So it's Wednesday evening as I write this, 7.20 PM to be precise. Wednesdays, you may be aware, are my regular evening with A and K. Every other Friday night (in theory) they come to me too, the theory being that they stay the night and are with me until Saturday evening. It's a bummer sometimes, this divorce thing isn't easy on any of the parties involved and the time apart from your children can wrench at the heart and tear at a fellow.

And now, as K hits fifteen and A approaches seventeen, the last thing either of them wants to do is spend time with a male parent, a father as they're commonly called.

A couple of years ago I'd collect them from their place every Wednesday at around 3.30 PM. These days it's become a case of "what time will you be at mine?" and they break off activities with their pals to pop round and let me feed them.

K has just left. She texted me earlier to say she'll be here at about 6 PM, but then "had" to go to a friend's house and would make her own way back to her mother's later on. Minutes before she arrived I got another text:

"Dada will you get Chinese food for me as I have to eat quickly and then go?"

I chose not to respond, figuring that way I could actually walk to the Chinese across the road with her, to get a brief snippet of time together. That plan came close to working, though talking to me proved quite hard with the distraction of whatever hum of activity was going on on Facebook at the time.

A quick refuel, involving K stuffing more Chinese food into her mouth than even I thought possible, followed by another check on Facebook, and she was gone. There was a commitment to let me know what's going to happen this Friday and there was a spell in which I gave her £40 for a trip to Alton Towers, an amusement park, that she claims to be doing in the next day or two.

And I sit and wait for the older sister, who promises to arrive about 9PM. She'll want feeding, she'll get on facebook, watch TV and send more texts than I do in about a century. Then I'll drop her home, getting some vague promise that she'll let me know what's happening on Friday.

Sometimes, the life of a divorced Dad does hurt a bit you know.

The Final Installment ( I hope! )

Americans piss me off sometimes!

I mean to say, I write "installment" in the title and the spellcheck threatens me with expulsion from the universe, being whipped by Angel Delight (butterscotch flavour) and all sorts. But it looks right I think, so look it up in my trusty Collins English dictionary, where Mr Collins tells me that it can be spelt with a double L or a single one. I choose the latter and decide to open this blog post with a mini rant about it. Pah! is all I can say.

The first two parts of this post can be found here and here. An apology is necessary, for no other reason than sometimes that Brit in me feels a need to apologise. That's what we do. But the real apology is for a three part post, something I never intended, just that the story is a long one. I hope, as do you no doubt, that this is the final part.

So I'd spoken to A about the mess, I'd accepted her worryingly grovelling and out of character humble apology and life sailed on, as it does by the river.

You've never met my neighbours before have you?

Well the ground floor of RD Towers has two apartments; mine and the one next door. There's a wall that separates us and we have a hall that contains each of our front door. They're a really nice couple called J and D. They must be in their later forties, he's divorced with a grown up daughter and she, the D in the couple, is a air stewardess for Virgin. I'm pretty sure she's not a virgin, that wall is quite thin you know.

J (the he) works in oil. But he's not a painter, I mean he works in proper oil, so he spends a lot of his time away from his apartment. D, being air crew, also spends mucho timeo awayo. The result is that they convene at their place every few weeks and I don't see them that often. They're nice, easy going and pleasant enough.

J likes to play music and with the wall being what it is, this means I often hear his choice of playlist, something that's never a problem for me. Life, as far as I'm concerned, is better to music. Because of this it means that he's a fellow who never has an issue with noise from my side of the wall, such noise usually being the dull thud of me practicing on my electronic drums, which some find annoying.

So I reckon we're pretty perfect neighbours for each other, though J might prefer me to be a blonde large breasted nymphomaniac. As I would prefer him to be come to think of it, though proper girls' breasts I mean, not a bloke with manboobs.

And last Sunday J and D were around, the first time I'd seen them this year. I bumped into them by the lift. We shot the shit for a bit, then we chewed the cud and then finally we chatted about things.

There was talk about the weather in New York, where D had just flown in from, some bits and pieces about what they did for Christmas, a section on my sojourn to the motherland and then J hit me with it, the thing.

"And how was your flat?"

"Eh?" said I.

"How was your flat, after the parties?"

"The PARTIES??" I said.

"Erm yes, parties. It wasn't a problem, your daughter even came and apologised about the noise the next day. And she warned us about it before as well. "

All of which made me feel a lot better, as you can imagine.

"Parties?" I said. You know when you get stuck in that place, the place where there are thousands of things going through your head yet you only manage to get the same word out repeatedly? Well I was there.

"Did she have more than one?" I asked, as if that wasn't clear enough already.

J hesitated, his mind already feeling sorry for A, for the trouble he might have dropped her in. But, as Marty McFly knows very well, you can't go back in time.

"Well yeah, she had more than, ahem, one. There was New Year's Eve and at least one more a couple of days before...... but the noise wasn't a problem at all, we're not bothered by that sort of thing. Really it was fine."

I offered my profound gratitude for his act of grassing up my eldest, we swapped lighthearted banter about the things kids do and off I went to the gym, where I slowly seethed, realising exactly why A had been relatively quick to apologise and admit to things, why she'd agreed to my every demand. It was all a cover up and I'd so nearly been duped.

I returned from the gym, knocked on J and D's door and gave them a bottle of champagne as an apology and a thank you for putting up with the noise. J refused it, then took it and we did that manly dance of not accepting something but not being sure at precisely which point to back off. We got there in the end, him taking the bottle and me being pleased that he had.

I was back in that situation that every parent has had to face; when you're actually proud of your child for doing something and getting away with it, almost in this case, but you have to let them know that you know and that it's not to happen again.

I was also pretty angry with her. Two parties? It was out of order and she needed to be told.

After some tactical pondering my favoured course of action was one of letting A know that I'd found out the truth without coming down too heavily on her. I sent her a text saying

"I hear you had 2 parties while I was away"

The response came instantly

"No"

Which put me in an awkward posish.

I let it lie, figuring the best thing was to wait until she was with me a few days later.

Wednesday came, as Wednesdays do, and I picked up the girls. After some preliminaries, mostly involving them raiding my fridge and chocolate drawer and eating things as if they haven't eaten for weeks, I summoned A into my room. She followed me, trying to look cool and nonchalant. I led her, attempting the same. Both of us failed with massive success.

"So" I opened with. It seemed like a good way of setting the tone.

"I hear you had two parties while I was away." I'd decided not to divulge my sources early, to see how she'd react. That, as well as opening with "so", was pretty much my plan.

"No" A replied, but said it with that indignant teenager voice, so it sounded more like "nooo ooooerr" going down about a semitone, perhaps a tone, in the second syllable. The word "no" as far as I can make out, is one small word consisting of one syllable and two letters. There's not much to it. If it was a food it would be a salad with only lettuce and no dressing. How every teenage in the world can say it with so much expression and meaning is a mystery to me.

I knew that I had to ramp things up, that we were close to a stalemate. At the risk of their wrath I had to reveal my sources. It was sensible but perhaps not a good way to ingratiate myself to the average journalist.

"Well I saw J and D next door, they've been away, and they said you had two parties actually"

And I said the "actually" in that petulant "ha I've sussed you out" way. I meant it to sting.

"Well I had friends round twice, but they were hardly parties. And we didn't really make that much noise so I don't know why they're complaining."

"Well they weren't complaining, they just mentioned it. They were fine about it" I said, realising that I was on precarious ground that was about to collapse underneath me.

"You never said I couldn't have people round twice. And they were okay about the noise yeah?"

The ground gave way and swallowed me.

"Well, you know" I came back cleverly with.

"You should ask me next time."

"Yeah okay Dad, whatever."

And life carried on.

I think it's safe to say I won that one easily.

Cool Dad!

Remember how I told you about the boy and the Dad, the one who's in a band?

Well I received a text from A the other day. It said

"Dad, just out of interest when's your next gig?

I read it and smiled, perhaps it was more of a smirk. Clearly the whole cool Dad thing, that cool Dad that I used to be, before I became uncool, was coming back into demand as A embarks on a journey of trying to impress a boy, one whose Dad's in a band.

I realised that A wanted to come to the next gig with the mystery boy to show him that I'm down with the kids, that I'm trendy, cool and use product in my hair, except on the bald spot of course.

I reckoned it would be best not to reply to A straight away, to leave it a little so that I didn't sound too chuffed (English for pleased) about her interest, so I relaxed and thought about the set list at our next gig. Was it "young" enough or would I have to try and persuade the others that we'd have to drop a few of the older songs?

Should I try to play the songs without gurning too much when I really get into them? Something virtually every drummer does, but we really shouldn't, particularly when we wonder why the singer gets all the girls.

Would my band be better than mystery boy's Dad's band? Would I be better than the drummer in mystery boy's Dad's band? Or, if mystery boy's Dad is the drummer what would be the best result?

Perhaps I should play a bit flashy to show off for the mystery kid, not a good thing musically but sometimes needed for impressing people who don't know about music.

All these things floated through my mind for a pleasant half hour. If I were a fighting man, an American or a German football fan the air would have been punched with delight. But I'm not. So I didn't.

I imagined the gig. I could see A standing there with the boy, telling him about my bands, my influences and the music I like, that sort of thing.

When all was done I sent my reply to A:

"Next gig is on Friday week. Why do you ask?"

She replied immediately, confirming all my suspicions, as she usually takes about a month to respond to me.

"Oh cool, you mean next Friday?"

"Yes, next Friday" said I

The reply came.

"Great, can I have some friends round to your flat that night when you're out then?"

Oh bollocks, I thought.

So close yet so far.

The Ongoing K and Z Saga - Part 2

continued from here.

We finished the call and I sat and did some pondering. I like pondering and I'm quite good at it, not world class but I think I'm a decent club level ponderer. I'm sometimes criticised for being too right sided but can hold my own. In fact I often do hold my own when pondering.

I figured that Old Mrs Z was probably only saying she wanted to speak to me as a bit of a threat, to keep her son on his toes and make him and K aware that it was a possibility. I reckoned my panic was a bit stupid. I'm nearly an adult myself after all, what was there to feel nervous about, why should I feel as if I might be on trial? It wasn't like I was going to be talking to Lady D's Mum or something.

Yes, I placated myself, calmed down and sat there watching Geese on the river. "Geese on the river" was actually what I was watching, it's not a crap film with Samuel L Jackson about some Geese running riot on the river and killing people with terrorists and stuff, just so you know.

Then, about thirty seconds later, my phone rang with a call from an unknown number. I paused Geese on the river, well I would have if I could, and readied myself to answer the call. By readying myself I meant I got serious.

So Old Mrs Z really wanted some did she?

Well any daughter of mine is good enough for any son of hers, I figured. If she wants to interrogate me then I'm up to the job.

I answered.

"Hello" I said. Then thought that I should sound a bit lower in tone, a bit more commanding. So I did. This time I said

"Hello" It did the trick.

"Hello, this is S, Z's mother. I understand that Z and K are quite good friends and I just wanted to introduce myself and say hello."

She'd hesitated when she got to the "quite good friends" bit, something I understood totally. What do you do when they're fourteen? It seems wholly inappropriate to refer to them as boyfriend and girlfriend, or a couple, but it's also inaccurate to just talk about them as friends. My observations, which could be wrong or carefully planned, are that they hang and mess around, but they do a hell of a lot of it.

In the recesses of my mind lurked the suspicion that it might not be so good for Z if I mentioned to his Mum that I'd already met him a few times. It seemed as though he must have just told her of K's existence as a "special" friend and that it would be best if I made out I was in the same boat.

While we're on that subject I'd also suggest that, should you ever meet Old Mrs Z, you don't mention that you read about her son on my blog some months before she'd been told about things. Thanks.

Then she told me that he was planning to come round that evening and asked if I was happy with that. I replied in the affirmative, asking her what time she wanted him to leave and if he was okay in getting a train home. It all went quite smoothly. I tried my utmost to sound respectable and mature, told her to call me anytime if she needed, now she has my number, resisted the temptation to say miscellaneous things about the Z I've met already, then that was it.

It's bloody weird and I can't help chuckling. One week there am I trying my best to impress C's parents, then the next week I'm hastily trying to impress Z's Mum, whilst Z's doing his best to impress me. Mental.

I went to collect the girls, had to tell K every minute detail about the phone conversation, then the evening hit us, along with Z.

A and myself watched the England v USA match while K and Z flitted between the sitting room and the girls' bedroom, where they seemed to be hanging, chatting and monitoring Facebook. Obviously it's important that kids of that age check the book around every forty seconds just in case any friends have changed their status or left a witty comment somewhere.

I'd bought a good selection of crisps and chocolate things and K and Z raided my newly formed chocolate drawer at regular intervals. I made pizza for them, which they devoured as if they hadn't eaten for a couple of years. RD Towers isn't the hugest of places, with rooms and wings which people can disappear to and not get found for some hours, so we have to do a lot of living in each other's space.

Each time I encountered Z at the kitchen island there'd be the briefest of interchanges, getting briefer each time as I used up my methods of extracting words out of him. Once I'd asked him how his drumming was going and established he wasn't that interested in football the conversation went back to sporadic grunting.

He was starting to annoy me too, with drumming. I noticed he'd be at the island doing various rolls and paradiddles things with his hands and feet and it was getting on my nerves. Until I was hit with a revelation. I didn't find God or anything, but suddenly realised that the little oink was trying to impress me, yes me. He was doing all his best and most impressive drum moves and, while I'd been getting annoyed, he was busily trying to show me his chops. (that's a drum term)

Wow, cool and fab, I thought to myself. I've had weeks of trying to impress parents all over the show and suddenly there's a child attempting it on me. I wasn't sure what to do with this new found knowledge so observed, smirked a bit and did nothing. It seemed wise. Probably not as wise as Stephen Fry but wise by my standards.

Some hours later, as I'd promised to Old Mrs Z, I made sure he went off to get his train at the allotted time.

This was a dodgy call. He'd been allowed to leave at ten, then we discovered the train was at ten thirty so he planned to go to the station at about ten twenty, all of which had been okayed by the mother via a text message that I'd been shown.

I told K that I'd walk with them to the station, a five minute walk from RD Towers, and she'd been predictably unhappy with that plan, but no way was I going to let her walk back from the station on her own. I settled on letting them go on their own but with A, the elder sister, accompanying them.

They set off, with A walking some paces behind K and Z, listening to her iPod and doing her best at playing the disinterested and reluctantly dutiful elder sister. I waved to them and did my best to play the cool and nonchalant Dad, pretending I was watching TV when I was far more worried about their ten minute walk at just after darkness on a Saturday night.

Twenty minutes later and there was no sign of them. I left it another five minutes and still there was nothing. I called a mobile and K answered, to tell me that they were still at the station waiting for the replacement bus to arrive as the trains weren't running for some reason. I did the only thing a parent could do, particularly one who'd just promised Old Mrs Z that he'd look after her son.

"Well you'd better come back, you can't have Z getting a bus on his own at this time of night. I'll drop him home" I said in my kindest, slightly victim but general good father tones.

What can a fellow do? I couldn't stand, or sit, and watch the chap go by bus and get home at God knows what time. A, K and Z arrived back at RD Towers in a few minutes and we piled into the car. The journey itself was uneventful. I kept on eye on K and Z in the rear view mirror but all seemed calm there, everyone was tired including me.

Once we got to the house of Z he sort of spilled out of the car, grunted a thank you for the lift and then was gone. I knew that the mother was out at work that night so I waited to see that he'd got into the house and we left.

As we drove back, it was around midnight by then, both the girls fell fast asleep and I had one of those parent's moments; when you look at your kids and see them as gentle and angelic butter wouldn't melt in their mouth beauties instead of the horrible things they really are. I dropped A back at her mothers and went back to RD Towers with K, who was allowed to sleep in her own bed.

Shortly after getting back I got a text. It was from Old Mrs Z.

"Thank you very much for dropping Z back. I always have my doubts about weekend trains."

It was nice of her.

I (rep)lied

"No problem, anytime."

The Ongoing K and Z Saga

There I was, on Friday evening. I was early as usual for a gig, sitting there and waiting for the others to arrive so I thought I'd ring the girls and see how they were.

I couldn't locate A, or she saw me calling on her mobile and decided not to answer, probably the more realistic scenario. I tried K and got her voicemail too. So I remained in my car listening to my newest funky CD and soaking up the atmosphere of the car park of an old English period house. It probably wasn't a car park when they'd built the house though.

Minutes later my phone rang. It was K. I answered.

"Hi Dad"

"Hi K. What's going on? What are you up to?" I asked, trying to recollect everything I've been taught about using detail to talk to my kids, to encourage good quality conversation with them, and failing.

K was talkative, something that imparts upon a father a feeling of apprehension and alertness. I'd imagine that a politician or VIP would feel the same way when being interviewed by Stephen Sackur for Hardtalk and finding him to be friendly, amiable and pleasant as pie. It's tempting to just go with the flow and enjoy the moment but you know that's what a Lion, the king of the jungle, does just before he's surprised and taken from behind by a couple of hairdressers.

We talked about this and that, as one does. I was due to have the girls with me the next night, to watch the England match and have dinner and things. Once K had relaxed me she asked

"Can Z come round tomorrow?"

It was no big deal, he shows up quite a lot now and seems harmless, almost quite nice, as nice as a fourteen year old who can only communicate by grunting can be that is.

"Yeah sure, but I'm definitely watching the football" I answered. I was pleased. I'd been alert enough to know that she was going to ask me that and it was no big deal anyhow. My results for the day in the development as a father, the quest to continually be one step ahead of them were going to be good.

"And is is okay if he stays the night?" she asked.

Still riding on the crest of my success I casually replied.

"Yes of course it is K"

She thanked my, bid goodbye and we ended the call.

Two, perhaps three milliseconds later, something hit me in the face. It was the obvious, many kilograms of it, and it was travelling at quite a high speed. I called K back.

"K, listen" I said rather stupidly. I mean, we were on the phone so why did I tell her to listen? If she wasn't listening she wouldn't have heard the instruction anyhow so wouldn't have been able to obey it, not that she ever obeys me anyway. Dads can be so stupid sometimes.

"When I said Z could stay the night, well it's okay but you two can't sleep in the same room, and it's only okay if his Mum's okay with it and knows about it alright?" Z's parents are divorced, he lives with his Pakistani Mum and she's quite pious I've been told. On the other hand Z is seemingly about as likely to be caught by a huge bout of religion as Barack Obama is to be seen fronting BP's next advertising campaign.

I'd also been told that Old Mrs Z was only vaguely aware of K's presence, that she "sort of" knew she was a friend of the son, but not so much that they're "going out", whatever that means these days.

K made vain attempts to negotiate with me, but I held a steady and certain course. Z could stay but K would have to sleep in my bed. Or I'd drop Z home later in the evening if he wanted that. There was no way they were going to sleep in the separate beds in one room. K skulked off, knowing exactly where I stood on this issue. I went off to set up, play my gig and do drummer's things. The gig was crap, I might write a post and tell you about it another time.

Saturday morning arrived, as it does and K called me to discuss arrangements. She told me, somewhat hoftily, that she'd decided to sleep on the sofa. I told her that she hadn't and that she wasn't. I've just invented the word "hoftily", it seems accurate. When things like this happen I'm like a very heavy jelly; wobbly and shakey but staying in the same place, except when I move of course.

I told her I'd see her about one o'clock as planned, hung up and said goodbye. I made a mental note to say goodbye before I hang up next time, just to make things easier.

Ten minutes before I was due to leave to collect them K called again, sounding shifty.

"Erm Dad, Z's not going to be staying the night now, his Mum says he has to go home" I was told.

"Ok no worries, so we'll drop him back then shall we?"

"No, that's okay, he'll get a train, his Mum says he has to leave by about ten"

"Okay fine" I said.

"Erm, but, erm, the thing is" she said, exceedingly nervously.

"His Mum wants to talk to you, to check you're alright with it" she added.

I smirked inwardly. That was why she was nervous. I, her Dad, was in a position of power. I did my Joey Tribbiani smirking look, but no one was there to see me.

"So is that okay?" she asked.

"Yeah sure it is, when does she want to call me?"

"In a few minutes" came the reply.

And then I panicked, but not as much as I knew K was panicking.

to be continued...............

Oh No, Another Boy!

You know how I told you about K and the boy Z here? Well he's still around, more than ever actually. K spends about twenty six hours a day communicating with the fellow in some way or another. Most of the the time it's via MSN or Facebook, with breaks in which they resort to phone calls or texts.

After some reluctance and failure to accept things I'm now getting used to the situation. It's one of K being physically in the room but not really in it whenever she's with me, or not with me, if you see what I mean.

Z is seemingly quite a decent sort of kid, in that grungy hasn't washed for some weeks but only looks like that because he really washes every day or his Mum will ground him big time, sort of way. And he still plays the drums. So he's alright, in as far as boyfriends, a word I use with the greatest of discomfort, for one of my daughters go.

For fourteen years I was the most important man in K's life. I got used to the position, that of authority, wisdom and influence. I got used to being the man in her life. Then, even though this whatever you might want to call it with Z, might only last for a matter of the tiniest fraction of K's life, I became redundant. Redundant that is in all but the supply of money, it seems I'm still good for that.

Still life sailed on with me getting used to my new position with the comfort of thinking that girls and their Dads are always okay in the end. As I told you here there are positives to the new situation anyhow. Then, some weeks ago, I became ever so slightly conscious of A, the older sister, getting just that little bit more moody than normal.

Most of you girls will know that to notice a fifteen or sixteen year old girl becoming a bit more moody than normal is akin to spotting that driver, the one on the Galle Road in the rush hour, using his horn a bit much. Or to spot a Leopard and criticise him for being a bit evasive. So I hadn't paid much attention to A and her change in behaviour.

Then she mentioned him, several times in one morning. In that casual, dropping him oh so nonchalantly into the conversation so my Dad will get used to it but won't suspect anything kind of way. He's called F, he likes Muse, but I don't fall for tactics like that, and for several weeks he's made guest appearances in conversations between A and I that he's really had no right to be in.

As well as being the birthday of the legendary Lady Divine, yesterday was also A's birthday, her sixteenth, which, as Indi would probably say, kinda freaked me out like. In the morning I popped round there to say happy birthday, to A's place that is, not Lady D's. The door was opened by A, dressed up to the nines because F was coming round as he wanted to "talk" to her about something.

She was wearing more make up than one of those perfume girls in a department store who's decided to go for an interview to be Ronald McDonald. She was glammed up, as her Dad it shocked me, in a nice way.

As the father of girls this is what we have to contend with; the thought of some teenage scamps sniffing around your offspring, trying to do all the things that we used to try with girls and being all manly when their voice has barely broken. It's weird. We want them to grow up, we feel proud of them and happy to watch them mature. But damn, it's a challenge sometimes.

Oh well, at least F likes Muse.

More Thoughts Of A Divorced Dad

Nearly three years on I must admit the divorced Dad thing is still challenging at times, though I continually attempt to be aware that however hard and challenging it is for me, it's probably harder for A and K.

A wise man said to me the other day that the only constant thing in life is change. It makes sense, though he wasn't that wise as he had a bit of a bogey hanging out of his left nostril and didn't realise it. Note to self; when dishing out words of wisdom check nose for stragglers beforehand.

One of the many things that surprised me was the dynamics of my relationships with A and K, how things have changed and are still changing. Before the split A (the now 15 year old) and myself were always particularly close and K (the 13 year old) was attached to her mother. It was never a problematic thing, just that A and I had a bond of sorts, both playing the drums, sharing a similar sense of humour and being similar in many mental characteristics.

A natural selection process had evolved and A and I would do many things together while K and her mother would do the same, so natural that I'd never really paid much attention to it in a conscious way.

Then post split, I was in the position of seeing the girls on Wednesday evenings and on alternate Fridays until Saturday evening. It's the way these things pan out and it's ultimately what I chose, so I'm not moaning to you, but sometimes it's fucking hard for a parent. Like a little piece of your soul has had to be removed for the greater good.

I've never wanted to be a once a week type of Dad and so I try continually to maintain contact on a regular basis. I call them, I text them and generally make every effort to keep things as fluid as possible. But that's not the answer because, while things in the post divorce life progress and move on, the life of a teenager also does.

I call, they answer and talk in monosyllabic, sometimes even less, tones. I text and I occasionally get a response. Interraction on facebook is frowned upon by K, while her sister is too cool to even let me be her Facebook friend. I try my hardest to remain as constant as I can in their lives. It's what I figure is best, to try to give the message that their parents are divorced but are still their parents, that I'm still their Dad, no matter what.

Those moments that I took for granted, lying on a settee casually watching some crap TV with A sitting on my legs or washing up after dinner and dancing to Maybe Tomorrow by Orson have become treasured and rare. I guess the wallpaper of constant contact with occasional outbreaks of non contact has changed to one of constant separation with occasional outbreaks of contact.

For most of the time I've been aware of a problem but not known how to fix it; the issue of time alone with each of the girls. One of the biggest surprises was that all my time with the girls was exactly that; with the girls. It wasn't just A and I, chilling for a bit and doing nothing much, nor was it K and I doing the same, it was the three of us together. It was and is fantastic to get time with them, even with all their teenage hormones and girl drama present, but different.

But, with finite time anyhow, how does one engineer a bit of time without one of the sisters being present, something that used to take place naturally without seeming to have a negative impact on anyone. I came to the conclusion that I couldn't, that it was better to see them together than to try to change things.

On top of that, over the three years, the relationship between K and I has grown and got closer through a series of circumstances that I'd prefer not to go into now. Sorry about that, it's a bit weird I suppose. Old RD telling you just about everything but not that little five per cent. It's peaks and troughs, positives and negatives, but I'd prefer a straight line, as long as it's at the height of the peaks.

So, after much rambling, I've got to the main point, which is that I've been looking for ways in which to re nurture my relationship with A without detracting from my relationship with K whilst working within the confines of the limited time we get with each other.

You may be pleased to know that there appears to be a speck of light at the end of the tunnel and I don't think it's either a train or a blow torch. Which is good.

In recent weeks there have been two or three times when it's happened and it's filled my heart with that joy of a pleased parent. It's no big deal, just like how Neil Armstrong would have felt if, after landing on the moon, he'd scored the winning goal in the World Cup final and, while falling asleep that same night had come up with a way to travel faster than light in a tri shaw.

Yes, A has called or texted me, asked if I'm at home and then popped round. She's then turned up, mooched with me, chatted about rubbish, had a bit of a laugh and raided my fridge. The talk has been about everything but nothing, the laughter has been over stupid jokes, kind of like we used to do.

I'm trying to stay cool, to remain constant and not engage too much.

But I am pleased. Sometimes only time can help these things. We try desperately to invent solutions and find answers and the passing of time goes and does it all for us anyhow.

That's my news, what's yours?

M

I'm going to blow my own trumpet, just a bit.

This is, as those Italians say, my Mth post. Or in English it could be described as my thousandth post. Or in Singlish we might say something like "well done machang, a thousand posts no."

And it makes me feel quite emotional to be honest.

My blog began as an experiment, an experiment to see what would happen, one without a hypothesis and still without a conclusion. Though I know not whether a conclusion can be reached if there's no hypothesis to start with.

It's taken about three and a half years to get to the first millennium and such a huge amount of big stuff has happened in that time, in my life, your life and life in general.

In the case of the first person I've got divorced, I've joined three or so bands, I've left one or two of them. I met C and I've moved four times, two of which were back to my parents' place. Yes, I think it's fair to say that the only thing that hasn't changed dramatically in my life is my work. If, on the day I'd started blogging, you'd told me that all of this would happen to me I'd have phoned up a Doctor to have you carted off to a special place.

There's no point in me telling you about the specific things that have happened in your life, as I don't know who you are, but the chances are that you're one of the people who have been affected in some way by the end of hostilities in Sri Lanka. Most of us, Lankans, Lankan diaspora and people who have an interest in Serendib have been affected somehow. Isn't it amazing how things, which looked so bleak three and a half years ago, look so different now?

The Sri Lankan blogosphere, or the Lankanosphere as someone has christened it, has changed beyond recognition. I don't know the exact figures but Kottu has changed and developed from a small handful of close knit bloggers to a vast spray of over three hundred Lankan and Lankan related blogs.

Many of my old favourites have gone, their blogs deleted or hidden from view, making me look back and wonder if Julesonline, Hot Chocolate and so many others were real or imaginary. Did they exist, did they really regale me with their tales and adventures then vanish so abruptly?

Others have gone from public to private blogs, from regular to irregular blogging, for numerous reasons.

Then there have been some constants. Indi has been consistent and, as a blog is over six years old. He still. Writes very. Short sentences. He still gets read by just about everyone.

Lady D goes way back to January 2006 and Sittingnut goes all the way back to Aug 2005.

Yes, one thousand posts after I started lots of things have changed and lots have stayed the same.

I've learnt loads.

If you've been a reader, a commentator, a fellow blogger, a friend or a foe then the chances are that I've gleaned something from you. I've learned a hell of a lot more about Sri Lanka and have got even more attached to the country that I'm proud to be from, that I'm proud to consider as one of my homes.

The best thing? I've met and made some great and fantastic friends, too many to mention by name, though I should mention DD as he's prone to sulking!

Thank you, here's to 2M.


RD

EDIT - I was going to start this post by saying that something like

"By the time you read this Cerno will probably have published a post about the subject, as he's a bit like the Sri Lankan mother of the Lankanosphere with the way he keeps track of blogoversaries and events."

I decided that I wouldn't, as it was unlikely that Cerno's powers would extend this far, that he'd even notice.

I was wrong. Thank you very much for the post Mr Cerno, I think I might love you.

K And The Drinking

I got up on Saturday morning and made my toilet, as is the habit of many. Then, I sat on it and did a poo, nothing unusual there.

I meandered into the sitting room, which is combined with the kitchen area and drum practice area, of RD Towers and made myself a cup of tea. I used the pack of Sri Lankan tea bags. It's one of life's little dichotomies; the tea bags are Sri Lankan, I don't want to waste them and I want to be patriotic. Unfortunately they taste exactly 0.14 times as good as PG Tips pyramid tea bags. I know this because I've measured it.

So I'm working my way through the box of tea bags, wishing that I could throw them away and buy a box of proper PG Tips, knowing that such an act would probably make about fifteen tea pluckers redundant. I have a social conscience. Next time the chimps get my business though.

As I plunged into the golden nectar I opened my laptop and went to my usual places, ending up staring at my home page on the book. One of the first things to catch my eye was the status message of A, the fifteen year old. It had got about twenty comments from other people and it caused me great concern. The comments said things like

"What happened?"

"She must be in so much trouble"

The status said

"My little sister (that's K to you) got caught drinking"

You know K. She's smart and dangerous. It was only a matter of time before this happened but I hadn't expected it so soon.

I knew she had gone out to the cinema with friends on Friday night and guessed that she must have returned pissed and got in trouble.

As a person I was tempted to chuckle heartily at the situation and brush it off with humour and a good natured shrug. As a parent I wanted to tell K off, to make sure she didn't do this again for a while and that she kept on the straight and narrow. Then, as a divorced parent, the one who doesn't live with them, I wondered if I'd even get to officially find out about this. There was every chance that the girls and their mother would close shop, not telling me and keeping it amongst themselves.

And being a FB friend of them is a tricky business. JapSach's post about his mum on the book made me chuckle as I could totally relate to it from both sides; the child and the parent. It's a great means for me to keep a track of what the girls are doing, but if I do too much with the information I run the risk of being deleted as a friend, then having no further access to that side of their lives.

This situation made me decide that the last thing I should do was to ring up and say that I'd just seen this on Facebook and demand explanations and the like. They'd close ranks and I'd end up with nothing.

I called them and, after a few attempts, got an answer. I chatted with A, she told me nothing. I asked for K and was told that she was still in bed. "Hmmm... with a hangover" I thought, but didn't say, there was a definite element of A covering up for her little sister.

By midday K still hadn't been raised from her slumber. I texted her and got no response. Then I got a phone call from their mother. I expected a very serious "you need to talk to her about this" type of conversation. Instead their mother seemed to be amused.

"You'll never guess what happened" she said.

I told her that I probably would as I'd seen it on A's FB page. She told me the rest of the story. It went like this:

On Friday evening she'd come home from work to find their living room in a total and utter mess. There was paper all over the floor, evidence that someone had been cutting up paper and left the remnants everywhere. It was a shambles. A was the only child around and she grabbed her and told her off, to be told in believable tones that A wasn't responsible, that it was all down to K, who was out.

A little while later K waltzed back, plonked herself down in a chair and said nothing. Her mother said to her

"Well Miss, you're in serious trouble, what have you got to say about this then?"

K looked at her with a startled and scared look and, after a bit of hesitation, said

"I'm really sorry, I didn't mean it. I just tried a bit and hated it anyhow and then spat it out."

Her mother was confused, her sister was equally confused.

"You what?" said her mother.

"I just tried a mouthful from yours and didn't like it"

"Of what?"

K realised that there was something wrong at this point.

"Ermm, of your vodka bottle"

"I was talking about the mess in the front room"

"Oh" said a rather crestfallen K who now knew that not only was she in big trouble for a crime she had committed but she was also in deep doo doo for a crime that she'd just confessed to that hadn't been even uncovered.

I lost track after that, mostly because I was laughing too much. I agreed that I wouldn't say anything to K, as she was on the bus on her way to see me.

I couldn't resist a couple of jibes that afternoon, just to keep K on her toes. It was funny to watch her eyes, when I asked her if she'd like a beer or something, almost hearing the cogs turn in her devious head as she wondered how much I knew.

I must admit I was pleased that my initial fear, that she'd gone out and got drunk with her friends, was unfounded. In this case "caught drinking" meant that she'd had a swig of vodka and hated it.

The worry is the next time. K learns quickly and I'm sure the lessons from this episode will be most valuable to her.

By Sunday morning all evidence of the episode, the status on A's facebook page and the many comments, had mysteriously disappeared. I'm certain that K had protested to her sibling and, in a rare case, said sibling had felt pity and deleted the evidence.

Sometimes these sisters can stick together.

I Had An Arranged Marriage But Am Very Happy

Laughter is a wonderful thing isn't it?

There are occasions, many of them in an average RD day, when I laugh heartily and smile broadly as I do it, as though I'm using all the muscles in my face. It's usually at one of my own jokes.

But there are also those chuckling moments. It's not that they're not as funny as the bigger ones, just that they're a different kind of laughter moment. They involve a gentle chuckle, a sort of laughing inside of myself, often at a joke or something funny that I think other people around me won't appreciate.

And as I looked through the stats for my blog the other day and saw that someone had arrived here by googling the above phrase, I did one of those gentle chuckling things.

"I had an arranged marriage but am very happy"

Is it funny for you too?

For me it's the use of the word "but" that makes this chuckleable, combined of course with the fact that someone's actually had to search the internet for the phrase. It's as if they've been taken by surprise that their arranged marriage is a happy one.

Or is it that the person had an arranged marriage that didn't work out and now they're happy?

Arranged marriages are a phenomenon that I've changed my opinion on over they years. Despite the fact that most of my family on one side have had them, I used to be dead against them. As I've got older and garnered more knowledge and experience I now believe they're perfectly legitimate, though I'm fundamentally opposed to the "forced" ones.

I know, from personal experience, that any marriage can last and any marriage can end in divorce. I think whether it's arranged or not probably has little bearing. The only difference may well be that arranged marriages might be more likely to last because of the western compared to the eastern approach to divorce.

On the other hand there may also be an argument that people might be less happy within an arranged marriage yet more likely to grin and bear it.

Which is worse, which is better?

I know not, I don't think there is, or needs to be a definitive answer.

I do know that the search that got to my blog made me chuckle though.

The Perfect Day With The Girls

'tis rare for me to come out with a good idea. I'm quite proud of the idea I had about Cerno's coffee table, the one about making a coffee table out of coffee table books, and my invention of the wheel was quite good too. But, all in all, I can't make any claims to fame as an ideas person.

The other day though I came up with one. During the divorce me and my ex came to an informal agreement about the arrangements for the summer holiday spell. It involves her taking them away one year and me doing the same the next year. Last year was my turn and I brought them to Lanka. It was fun, challenging, brilliant and tough, but time is a wonderful healer and I know that those were relatively early days.

This year they go away with their mother and I carry on with my normal life. My idea the other day, which might sound like nothing to you, was to take a day off work, take them out and do something that we'd all enjoy. After some negotiation we settled on going to Thorpe Park, a local amusement park, for the day. I use the work "local" there in an entirely subjective way. To you, who more than likely lives in Sri Lanka, it's not local.

My suggestion was initially met with apprehension, as I had been afraid of. I was unsure if thirteen and fifteen year old girls would be up for an amusement park with their Dad. K had been there and had a fantastic time only a few weeks ago, but that was with her friends. A is more into being cool these days, if being cool involves lounging around and watching TV, then telling all your friends on Facebook about what you've just been watching.

This scepticism and reluctance was something I dealt with rather niftily by offering up my counter plan to take them shopping in central London. They were keen on the idea and things were promising. Then, a day or two before the day I received a phone call.

"Dad, we were thinking."

"Ok K" I said guardedly.

"Well we'd actually quite like to go to Thorpe Park on Wednesday, we think it could be fun."

"Ok" I said again, as it's one of my favourite words and it seemed to suit.

And two days later, feeling like an outtake from the Inbetweeners, we were heading off to Thorpe Park. We'd agreed on a pick up time of 8.30 AM as it's summer holiday and we thought the place might be packed. So of course I got to their house at about 8.10 AM. I sometimes wish I could do something about my slightly obsessive earliness, then at other times figure that, at forty three, it's good to just accept some things about myself and go with my flow. The only time I'm late is if there's a song and a drumkit involved and I'm supposed to play.

There we were in the car. There was me, A, K and their seventeen year old cousin B, who was passing through London for a day. I was pleased to see her as it had been a year, perhaps more.

This is one of the things about divorce that many don't realise. Over the years you build relationships with your in laws, sometimes fellows even get to like them. B is a kid who I've known since the day she was born and I'm told that she looks upon me as a father figure, her own father being someone she has more or less no contact with.

I'm flattered and uncomfortable about this father figure business. You know enough about me and my life to understand that even my own kids don't think of me as a father figure (I am joking there, I think!) so for someone else to is a bit weird. But it's strange as B lives way out of London and the indisputable fact is that I have no real relationship to her by blood and now there's no connection even by marriage.

I hope it doesn't happen as I'm fond of her but, in the back of my mind, is the thought that the bond we have will fade with time and circumstance.

I digress.

Our journey was quick and accompanied by a car load of excitement and lots of Black Eyed Peas songs played really loudly. In particular the new one "I got a feeling" was on our playlist. All four of us love it and we sang, out of tune but not out of time, as I'm fussy about these things, to our hearts' content. We arrived, parked and got out of the car. The weather, at 9.00 AM, was warm and humid with that feeling that the day had nothing but more of the same to come. Things were looking good.

Even at that time in the morning there were hundreds of people there already, all queuing up ready for the place to open at 9.30 AM. I was a bit disappointed as I'd hoped we would be the only people in the world who'd come up with the cunning plan to get there early. It wasn't to be and I prepared myself to join the throng and queue up for hours on each ride.

Once we got in things looked different. The seemingly massive crowd got swallowed up by the vastness of the park within seconds and we found ourselves wandering around freely and effortlessly. I'd bought these fastrack tickets that enabled us to bypass queues on busy rides but they were hardly necessary as the queues were only a few minutes long on everything.

And we went on everything. We screamed and laughed our way through every single ride in town. A, K and B knew all the names for the rides and exactly what they were. I was clueless. I couldn't recall if Stealth was the one that made my stomach churn or my head spin dizzily, I couldn't remember if Collossus was the one that had ten 360 twists in a row or if it was the one that I saw Wembley stadium from.

All I knew was that I got to a point at which I was just laughing uncontrollably on every ride. I laughed with happiness, I laughed with fear and I laughed with joy, the joy of watching my daughters laughing and being joyful. We'd cracked jokes beforehand about divorced Dads and bonding, A had put up a jokey message on her FB about it. All of a sudden we really were doing it, kind of like the boiling frog, except it was fun.

It wasn't two kids, a late teenager and an adult out doing something, it was four kids having unadulterated fun. We got soaked on a water thing, we went from 0-80 mph in less than two seconds on another one and we dropped down what felt like a liftshaft in the dark. Then, we stuffed our faces with KFC for lunch and went and did it all again.

Afterwards we returned to RD Towers and chilled and recovered. We were all knackered and I was surprised at just how tiring all the rides actually were. I guess it's the adrenalin flow and the tension that runs through you for a minute as you grip the seat and harness with everything you've got.

Then I took them out for dinner at the local noodle bar. It was food that was much needed and was wolfed down with gusto, not to be confused with pesto.

We watched Midsomer Murders, I guessed who the murderer was and then I dropped them all home.

I slept like a baby that night. Or perhaps a log, I never really understand the difference.

I felt so pleased that the day had gone brilliantly, enjoyed by all.

Every once in a while I come up with a great idea.

Cool.

Noodles, Girls, Alcohol And Life.

One evening last week I was in the local noodle bar. When I say "local" I mean local for me, not really for you, unless you live quite near me of course.

I like this place and tend to get a few takeaways from it on a regular basis. Sometimes me and the girls walk down there and sit and stuff our faces merrily. It's basically a Chinese restaurant, with restaurant prices. But cleverly, in order to be able to justify the term "noodle bar" they have a menu that's only got about half the amount of dishes you'd get in a restaurant and it has café style seating and tables. Cunning. The food however, is delicious.

I don't know if you live on your own but, as you may be aware, I do, well, mostly. It's an interestingly and ongoing challenge this relatively new single life. One of the results of the divorce is that I lost many, many friends. Society is such that a huge proportion of my friends were ones that I shared with my ex wife and many made judgements and the like. These things happen and the man who is seen to leave his wife and kids is never going to get much sympathy from some.

And now, going through this rebuilding my life thing, most of my friends are married with kids anyway. So social things have to be arranged weeks in advance. Such is life and when I have the girls or when C's here it's all jolly and different.

The rest of the time, which is most of it, I'm on my own. It's fortunate that I'm quite fond of myself, in fact I'm one of my favourite people, so I'm usually fairly mellow and content. I potter about in RD Towers, I read, drum, try to write and do all sorts of things that I want to do.

Then it gets to dinner time and I wonder what to eat. Cooking for one is weird. It's a lot of effort when I'm the only diner. There's no sense of someone appreciating my effort or liking the food as I've been tasting it all along the way and know what's coming. Normally I do it and cook something in such a quantity that it'll last for a few days, that kind of makes it worthwhile.

Eating out on my own is curiously challenging. In some countries, Singapore and even Sri Lanka for example, it's easy and common. Over here it still gets a few glances, more so in the evening than at lunchtime. So I'm a bit wary of it, though I find myself getting better at it and less self conscious as time ticks on.

The aforementioned noodle bar is one of the places that I feel comfortable eating alone in. We'll call it S.

This time I was waiting for a takeaway. S is run, I assume owned as well, by a matriarchal Chinese woman. She must be about sixty, is always warm and friendly to the customers and often shouts with ferocity at her staff. I know this because the walls are thin there.

The phone rang and the matriarch answered it. It became apparent that it was a regular customer. As the conversation progressed I realised that it was a regular customer telling the matriarch that their daughter was heading that way on the Friday with some friends. The customer was asking the owner to refrain from serving any alcohol to the group as they'd probably ask for it.

Matriarch, in her matriarchal way, was saying that it won't be a problem at all, that she'd refuse any request for alcohol and had her methods of controlling rowdy groups of teenage girls. I looked on and felt both admiration and belief. Sometimes you just know that these things are true.

A couple of days later I was to be found busily and happily setting up my drums for that evening's gig. My phone rang and I answered it. It was A, the fifteen year old.

"Dad" she said, in that slightly too dynamic and buoyant way that immediately told me she was with friends.

"Oh hello A, how's it going?" said I.

"Dad, Dad, I'm in S, what was the dish you had last time, I really liked it."

"Eh?" I said.

"That prawn thing you had, last time we went to S, the one I liked. What was it called?"

"Oh, that was the King Prawn curry with egg fried rice." I said, as the cogs started to turn in my head.

"You're in S are you? With who?"

And she reeled off a list of girls' names.

Kerching, kerching, kerching, was the noise as things in my head all dropped into place and I realised that alcohol is my new challenge to be faced as a parent, then wondered why I could hear the sound of a cash register. Sometimes these sound effects don't quite cut it, but what exactly is the noise a conclusion makes?

The noise matters not, it's the coming years I fear.

Oh shit!

Post Clutter Divorce Clutter Post

Sort of. I just liked the symmetry of the title to be honest.

Progress at RD Towers has been rapid and we're now almost done. You may have seen the last set of pictures to prove it. The last two pieces in the jigsaw, although there were five of them, were the kitchen island and the four stools, which were assembled and installed last week, ready for my first visitor.

Ordering the red settee is an example of my sheer recklessness and an illustration of my love for that danger thing. Only last week I drove out of the car park without wearing my seat belt. You see, sometimes I just don't care. Of course I did put the seatbelt on as soon as the lights started to flash at me and the bong started to bong. The short term verdict on it is that I'm far more comfortable living with the vivid redness than I am living with the lack of easy to clean leather.

Now I don't know if anyone who reads my scribblings has been through the divorced and moved out of the family home thing. I do know that there are divorcees out there, both of the male and female brands. I'm also aware that there are many who still live with their parents, the first time around, and haven't done the moving out, getting married and staying that way for fifteen years thing that I have. Let alone the moving back in with your parents after that.

And the word of the day around here is clutter.

In all the moving out, the selling of the house, the packing, storing and throwing away. In all the "I don't want that", "I do want that" and "I'll give that to charity" I realised just how much crap I'd built up over the years. There's only one word to describe it. That one word is "ckme" Funnily enough I met a girl called Charity recently and I've been meaning to write a post about her name. Just thought I'd tell you that, but it wasn't her that I gave lots of old stuff to.

When I moved back in with the 'rents I had boxes of things in several places. Though I had done some sifting through things it had been more a case of packing my life up and moving it around a bit rather than going through everything and deciding what to do with it all.

Finally, after what seems like a couple of years but was in fact merely twenty four months or so, I feel like I can exhale. The boxes are mostly sifted through and I've advanced to go, most definitely without collecting £200.

My god, how much stuff had I gathered over the years that I really shouldn't have kept? There was the steering wheel from my second car; my much loved, but not enough to have looked after it that well, MGB Roadster. I bought a sporty wooden one for it and kept the original, thinking that it was sentimental. Only it wasn't and I'm not. I kept it in an assortment of dusty cupboards for the best part of twenty years.

There were enough unworn clothes for me to start up a branch of Odel in London, many even still had Odel price labels on. I gave them all to charity shops and have vowed to be more focused in my garment buying approach in the future. Just because it's got an expensive label on it and the price in SL Rupees is low by UK standards doesn't actually mean that I have to buy it. I'm going to be a radical and think about weird things like whether I'll actually wear it and if I actually need it?

The biggest dilemna has been CDs and books. You know me, you know that I love my music and I read more books than even the number of awards given out at a Lankan ad industry award thing. So I've got hundreds of CDs and a library of books that I've built up over the years.

I simply don't have the space to keep all my old books but it also seems that it would be pointless as I hardly ever read one more than once. So I've given away many of them, but it's a bit like giving away fragments of my memories. Of course I've kept all my Sri Lankan books, the ex got the Polish ones, it was one of my better deals.

Then I've kept the books that have what seems like the stronger emotional connections. The Jeeves and Wooster compendium that I nicked from my best mate all those years ago, with his mother's name written inside the front cover was a tough and heartwrenching call, but it had to go. I've got all the stories in other books and they're much nicer looking and feeling ones.

The scores of management and self help books were challenging. I ended up keeping my very favourite ones, those that I think I'll want to come back to, and parted with the ones that had served their purpose. It felt painful but I get some comfort knowing that there might be a needy person who benefits from it.

My approach with the CD library was different and far less mercenary. I just can't bring myself to part with music so kept the lot, boxed up and stored. In the meantime I've got them all on iTunes and my iPod. I continually marvel at the amazing technology, for I'm a chap of the age group who remembers buying my first personal stereo.

It must have been about 1980, it was made by Binatone, played cassettes and was about the size of one of today's larger laptops. I moved up to a real Sony Walkman and now, about thirty years later, I carry around hundreds of albums, yes I still call them that, in a little box that's more or less a consumable anyway.

C asked me the other day if I thought I ever use one of these new fangled book reader things, these literary iPods that can store hundreds of books and yet take up the same space as an average sized paperback. You can read the things in almost the same way as you'd use a book, without that tactile feel of paper pages but with many advantages.

I'm sure one of these things wouldn't do the job scattered casually on a coffee table, nor would it feel the same as I casually sit and poo while browsing through an electronic magazine, but the positives about it do excite me a lot.

I picture this compact unit that holds my hundreds of books, enabling me to carry around more or less all the books I want wherever I go. I'd be able to jump on a plane and just take my bookreader without having to think about which books to take. I could chuck it in my briefcase, bung it in the glove compartment or even, in extreme cases, put it in a manbag and off I go with the ability to choose from anything my whole library at any time.

One big difference between a book reader and an iPod, as far as I'm aware, is that I wouldn't be able to put my existing hard copies of books onto it. When I got my very first iPod I spent about a fortnight's worth of evenings transferring my CDs onto iTunes. I uploaded every single one except those that I thought I've never, ever, not in a million years, listen to, which was really just that album by Milli Vanilli. It was time well spent.

If I could buy a e book reader that gave me that sort of backdated uploading facility I'd be out at the shops this afternoon tharashing my credit card to within an inch of its life.

And with the post divorce decluttering that I've been doing it would have been a huge time and hassle saver.

What do you think of these things? Do you reckon they'll catch on in the way that MP3 players have?

I think it's inevitable, yet feel slightly guilty at what it will mean for the traditional bookshop. Perhaps it will change the way literature is packaged and presented but make it accessible and interesting to a bigger audience too.

I hope that the feel, the atmosphere and the joy of browsing through the pages of books in a bookshop is around for a long time.

Come Sit With Me

The unpacking's done and the purchasing is beginning.

This is bad news for the RD economy but seriously good news for any shop within a certain radius of RD Towers.

Minimal is the word. Classy, stylish and tasteful are some more words and they're ones I'm trying to keep at the forefront of my mind. This is a hard task, as it seems right now that all my thoughts are jostling for position at the front of my mind. Do you ever get that? Prioritising's all well and good, just not when everything's in at number one.

With a relatively small living room I'm doing all I can to make good use of the space, particularly as the electronic drums are essential but not exactly great in terms of the whole space saving concept. If I was a singer things would be much easier, though I'd have my ego to carry around and singer's egos are always a big issue.

And, for maybe the first time ever, I'm pleased, I mean really pleased, that I'm about three feet shorter than the average Sri Lankan male, so short that I don't get any bigger as I walk towards you. Why? I hear you asking.

Because over here settees can be bought in several sizes. There are three seater and sometimes four seater ones, two seater and then "compact" two seaters. These compact ones, well you can probably figure it out but I'll explain anyway, are smaller than the regular two seaters but will still take two people.

An average sized Sudda would struggle to sit on one, let alone lie horizontally with a stomach full of rice and curry and watch TV while falling asleep. Things for me are different. I can lie on one and there's enough space between my feet and the arm of the settee for Duplication Road to sidle in comfortably, I can sit on one without that feeling of floating in a sea of sofa that is so common for me on other ones.

If you'd walked through the furniture department of John Lewis yesterday you may have seen a good looking bloke lounging on one of these compact two seater settees with a smug and content look on his face. That fellow was me. I was having an epiphany, even though it was Easter Monday.

I was excitedly realising that a compact two seater might be the way forward, that it could be the answer to many of my questions. The thing is that I don't expect to be entertaining many people that often. There'll of course be C when she's over here and the girls on Wednesdays and alternate Fridays, but that's pretty much it.

The odd friend here and there and of course my Mum about three times a day but that's about it. The thing about post divorce life is that the dinner party circuit dries up and socialising becomes something that's done more out than in. It's also a symptom of kids getting older too, even though they're not with me.

All this rambling is just to try to explain my dilemna; that I need seating for the rare influxes of people, but mostly I need just enough for me. I must add here, isn't spellchecking mad? I just ran one as I wasn't sure if the word "influxes" is a real one. According to blogger's spellcheck thing "influxes" is fine, but "seater" doesn't exist. Well Mr Blogger Spellcheck, how come I was sitting on a two seater then?

So there I was, sitting on the compact two seater and feeling epiphenous (I'm pretty sure that word really doesn't exist), and I realised that I might be bold and courageous and buy it.

It was RED!

I should really say it IS RED.

My thinking is that a red settee would be modern, in that specific design at least, it would be bright and, most importantly, it would match the new mega expensive oven glove. The compact element means that I can fit in two trendy single seater chairs as well, probably in man's black leather, with a trendy and minimalist style.

I didn't buy the red settee there and then but the more I think about it, the more I look at the brochure and the more I look around, the more I know that I almost definitely will.

I sat in one of my three local pubs last night, sipping a rather decent pint of Asahi lager and read my copy of Good Housekeeping. There was a group of merry, bordering on seriously drunk, people next to me so I hid the magazine in a copy of the Gay Times to avoid embarassment. This furnishing business is quite an art really.

I could get into it.

Must go, there's a bookcase I need to look at.

News

Yesterday I viewed a pad. Yesterday I made an offer on said pad and it was accepted.

This means that, when all the Is are crossed and the Ts are dotted, I'll be moving, shifting as you lot say, into my new place. It should be around April 6th.

I'm very excited, if not a little nervous. It's not a stopgap, it's really going to be a new home for me. If you're in Kingston please pop by, or in true Sri Lankan fashion, just drop in.

I even bought one of those magazines to give me ideas about furniture and shelving units.

I'll keep you posted, I might have a kind of blogged moving in thing going on with photos and all.

Just thought I'd tell you.

Feeling Good

I must admit to carrying around a feeling of jittery and nervy excitement with me in recent days. There are things going on in the RD life that I'll share with you, just because it's a big happy world of abundance in these parts and you might be interested.

The first thing is that I'm actively out flat, or apartment, hunting at the moment. Isn't it funny how apartment feels very different to flat? A flat conjures up images of old Parisienne type buildings with quaint lifts and musty smells. An apartment is modern, bright, airy and appeals to a different kind of person.

For a few reasons it's the apartment side of things that I'm seeking. I've pretty much decided on an area and this is so exciting that I literally get butterflies in the bath stomach as I think of it. My most important factor was that I wanted to be close to the girls, though my definition of "close" is governed by driving time rather than physical distance.

So I've been searching in the vicinity surrounding where they live, places within about a twenty minute drive of theirs. All good in theory but I play the drums, something that isn't conducive for the apartment hunter. You know me, I love drumming with a passion only matched by my passion for everything else in my life, but there are times when I wish I'd been born to be a singer or a harmonica player.

This drumming lark means that I need a place with good loading and unloading facilities. If it's above the ground floor then I need a lift. The last thing any drummer wants is to get back home at 2AM after a gig, park half a mile down the road and then lug his drum kit up stairs and around corners before going to bed.

Then the place needs to be solid with exceptional soundproofing. It's not that I practice on my acoustic kit at home, but that I have an electronic practice kit which is one of the best things ever invented. It does make a thumping or tapping noise though and this could seriously frustrate a downstairs neighbour or someone on the other side of a thin wall. This rules out all the old big houses, the conversion flats which are plentiful in these parts but generally have the soundproofing of a balmy Colombo night.

Next we have the divorced Dad issue. According to all my how to be a good divorced Dad books one of the common mistakes our species make, once the financial hardship starts to improve, is to go out and get some sort of cool batchelor pad, the kind of place we dreamed about living in when we were batchelors the first time around only couldn't afford. The newly divorced Dad, the one who has read no how to be a good divorced Dad books, gets one of these places and forgets that it is the most important thing in the world to give his kids the message that he is still their father, that they're still a big part of his life.

He has them over at the weekend, or whenever has been arranged, and they sleep on a settee or are given the message that it's not their home too. Well my thing is that I need to get a place with at least one bedroom for the girls. My concession is that they can share, but they will have their own room, ideally with a bathroom so we avoid all the complaints about the sharing issue.

I told K that I was looking for a place with a bathroom for them and her reaction was:

"Oh cool, so we won't have to put up with your bum hair then?"

The idea would appear to be popular.

All the objective and logical criteria are relevant and well and good, they need to be fulfilled for me to be happy somewhere. But then, on top of it all I'm trying to be in touch with my feelings on this, something we men find hard.

I'm trying to find a place that ticks all the boxes and does the functional stuff, but one that feels good the moment I walk into it. This is a challenge, one that I'm enjoying and relishing. I've already made an offer on one place, but it doesn't look like I'll get it. But I'm out there viewing and surfing and trawling and seeking.

It's a new area for me and trusting my gut is something I've got a lot better at in recent years but it's definitely like diving off a cliff in the dark. You just have to have faith and jump, you'll only get injured if you spend too much time hesitating.

Post divorce life presents challenges that are new to me. C may come over here to spend time, which will be cool, the girls will be with me at their usual times, but I'm conscious that they're getting to the ages when their main desire is to hang with their friends. So I know I'll be doing a hell of a lot of time hanging around on my own, like now, and the new pad has to make me feel good just to sit there and chill in.

I'm excitedly mellow about it. I'm hunting and viewing with a zen like calmness, knowing that, if I have the confidence, I'll find the perfect place. The place will be the final piece in one puzzle and the very first piece in the next one. Nice.

Oh, and I'm off to Singapore on Tuesday, so things might be a little bit quiet here for a day or two.

Happy Monday all.

What's Going On In The RD World

I'm starting to view flats so things these days are hectic in a very exciting way, though they're not made easier by dealing with estate agents. The whole property scenario, whether buying, selling, renting or letting would be much more simple and hassle free if estate agents could be cut out of the property chain.

I don't know what it's like over there in Serendib, perhaps your estate agents have a brain. Here in blighty they definitely DO have a brain, the problem is that they share it. In the US you have realtors and I have a vague hope that they might be more professional than their UK equivalents.

Over the years I've built up the opinion that estate agents are second only to recruitment consultants in their somethingness, I can't quite put a name to it. But, what is the point in telling any of them what my criteria are when they go and ignore them anyway? ( I never know if criteria is /are classed as singular or plural when I write of them / it) I have a list of things that are important to me:

1. Price - I shan't tell you what it is because you'll think I'm either skint or loaded. Then you'll just judge me.

2. Area - Within a certain radius of the kids, defined more by time than physical distance.

3. Ground floor or upper floors only if there's a lift, or a sidewalk as the Americans say;) - Because a drummer doesn't want to get back at 2 AM from a gig and have to trudge up flights of stairs with a drumkit. And because I'm a drummer.

4. Off street or at least good parking - see point 3.

5. Lots of light - You see, this will be a place that I really want to be in, that I enjoy hanging in. Let's face it, I spend a lot of time on my own so I'd like to do that in an environment I like. On reflection it's a reality you don't have to face, but I do.

6. At least 2 bedrooms.

That's it. And there is leeway with some of them. Price can move a bit, though I won't telling that to the parasites, particularly with the market being as it is here. Parking can be played around with as long as I can pull up outside and unload easily, but stairs is a no go. Light is subjective and bedrooms could be more but not less. The girls must have a room.

All my how to be a good divorced Dad books say that a classic mistake made by our ilk is to go out and move into a cool and stylish batchelor pad, as the need for a family home fades off into the distance, and have Britney Spears lookalikes around each night. Often the divorced Dad finds himself in a position to go out and buy or rent the type of place he could only dream about before he was married.

Then, post divorce, he does so and forgets that he also has to give his kids the message that he's still their Dad and part of their lives. This means that when they come to stay, they don't have to sleep on a foldout settee or be treated as if they're occasional guests. So my terrors will have a room in my new place, even though it will be used only occasionally.

I've tried to explain all of this to the agents but they continue to try to get me to view places that don't have the essential things I need. It wastes everyone's time, though my feelings for their time are somewhat limited.

I'm also recovering from Wednesday evening's pocket money negotiations with K. Honestly I wish there was a way I could have filmed the scene and stuck it up here for all to see. I don't know how it would have stood with privacy laws and the like, let alone how angry K might well have been with me when she eventually found out, but the thought crossed my mind.

Over the weekend I'll do a much more detailed post to tell you about it. You can get some idea when I tell you that she had prepared a powerpoint presentation with features I wouldn't have the faintest idea how to include, she wore a suit jacket while she presented and the final slide told me how much money I'd save, yes save, by giving her and A the proposed increase.

And I might write that post about the date I went on, the one with me.

As you have heard, the RD world is a nicely busy and buzzing one these days.

I'll leave you with wishes for a grand weekend and also break a leg best wishes things for the cast of Hamlet at Elsie's Bar. I feel like I've been standing in the sidelines watching the build up and would have loved to have seen it.

Next time maybe.

Sup Bitches

"Sup Bitches. K is enjoying the snow, so should you. heart"

Is the line that my joyous bundle of twelve year old daughter has written underneath her profile picture on Facebook. She has a heart picture after it, but I don't know how to do that so I wrote the word instead.

Funny this FB thing.

I never thought that, in the world of the divorced and non custodial Dad, it would give me a bit of a window into the lives of my kids.

I see their latest pictures, the groups they've joined and the friends they make. I look at the things they write.

I roll my eyes and smile warmly.

It's okay to miss them.

So This Is Christmas...

And what have you done?

Got divorced.

Moved house, twice.

Joined a new band.

Left another band.

Watched my kids go through really tough things.

Made lots of new friends.

Cleared out lots of false friends.

Notched up some serious airmiles.

Visited, dreamt about and pined for Colombo.

Joined Facebook.

Blogged about it.

All in all the year has been an absofuckinglutely massive one for me.

How was it for you?