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?

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?

Back In A Bit....

I'm coming down, as you lot say, for a little jaunt. So things might be quiet around here as I mooch around the metropolis and head out station too.

I've left The Auf in charge of things in London while I'm gone. He's a bit young and headstrong but I feel that the responsibility will do him good.

Please say hello if you see me, perhaps point me back in the direction of C's place, that would be good.

Ooooh bee dooo, can't wait!

Just Like Sri Lanka!

Here in Blighty we've got a mental little spell of holidays, short weeks and potential sunshine coming up.

One of my minds thinks it's great; the mind of the employee, the one that thinks about rest, leisure and general relaxation. Another of my minds; that of the employer, ponders on the revenue my company will lose from the extra days of holiday and gets all Scrooge like. Another mind just feels lucky that I don't have any schizophrenic tendencies.

First we've got Easter this weekend, meaning that it's Good Friday on, well, Friday and then Easter Monday on, you've guessed it, Monday. So it's a four day working week followed by a four day weekend. Class. And I've got a Solskala gig on Thursday night so will have a nice lie in on the following day, then will have A and K with me in the evening (I hope, though it's always dependent on their social lives these days!).

Then we return to our desks on Tuesday and only work for three days, as it's old Will's and Kate's wedding on the Friday. I've got two gigs with the covers band over that weekend, meaning the luxury of late nights, grooving like a mofo and then lie ins again. Sorted.

And, to top it all off we have a bank holiday Monday on May 2nd, giving us a four day week for that week.

Sadly we don't have beaches, jungles, beautiful hill country and lush landscapes to die for within a few hours' drive of just about anywhere. Nor do we have almost guaranteed good weather, though the forecasts are looking good. And these spells of excessive public holiday happen about once a century here, not the once every couple of weeks frequency that you guys are used to.

Our motorways will be packed, our airports full to the brim with people fleeing the country and just about everything that's worth doing will be so full and busy that it won't be worth doing. Such is life here.

But still, it's going to be fun. Except the revenue side of things!

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.

Ride A White Swan

I can't recall exactly how long these swan boat things have been prowling on Beira lake but it must be over a year, maybe closer to two years. Either way I've had a strange fascination with them since I first set eyes on the chaps.

Each time I've been past the lake I've gazed at them and harboured a growing desire to go out on one. The very first time I spotted them I immediately thought that some bright spark had found a use for old VW Beetle bodies, they looked so similar in shape. I developed a need to prove or disprove the Beetle theory, to find out if they were old Beetle bodies or if the shape was just a similar one. You can see what I mean can't you?

On top of that I wanted to go out on one, to drift around the clean (?) waters of the lake while listening to the backdrop of the Colombo traffic and to feel slightly weird riding around in such a tacky and artificial creation with the beauty of Geoffrey Bawa's temple in the background. The idiosyncratically Sri Lankan juxtaposition of the two things has captured me for a while.

My problem was one of how to engineer a ride. My visual research indicated that they're usually out on the lake during the late afternoon before sundown and occupied by people with young kids or young romancing couples.

What to do? Young children I don't have and, with the best will in the world, I don't think myself and C would win any prizes if we were to attempt to portray a young and romantic holding hands and gazing into each other's eyes type of couple. Besides, I'd mentioned the swans to C several times and she never quite shared my enthusiasm. That's women for you I guess.

If I were to go out on my own I'd attract lots of those stares, the kind I often get here when I go out to eat on my own, and probably get arrested, so that option was eliminated. Therefore I was left with A and K as my main hope, well, my only hope.

It was a gamble. At their current ages of fourteen and sixteen I never know if they'll be bored stiff because something's too childish for them or because it's too adult for their liking. It's always one or the other, except when it's not.

We were staying on Slave Island so passed the swans a few times a day during our travels and I pointed them out to the girls at the first opportunity. To my surprise they weren't totally averse to the concept and, after about a week or continual enthusiasm nurturing and the most unsubtle of hinting, we grabbed a tri shaw and found ourselves standing by the lake late one afternoon.

It was just myself and the two girls and it becamse apparent that I was by far the most excited about the whole idea. To be fair the girls were quite into the concept too and we paid our fee and boarded the huge and rather lifelike swan.

Until that point I didn't know what type of propulsion was involved and I saw straight away that they're those pedelo things. There's a steering wheel in the middle of the thing and a seat on each side with pedals. So two people pedal and one sits in the middle and steers.

We were told quite sternly that we had half an hour out on the lake and so set off. K and I were doing the pedalling and A steered. The plan was to do ten minutes of steering each. As K and me pedalled A steered our particular swan (no 9 I think) towards the island. We went round the island in an anti clockwise direction, waving to a few other swan people and heading towards the pedestrian bridge thing.

As all of this was going on I was trying to examine the swan's body to figure out if the resemblance to a Beetle was just a similarity or if it was far more sinister than that. You'll be interested to know that I've concluded it's just coincidence, the swan's body is bigger and shaped just a bit differently. Shame though.

As we approached the bridge I had a last minute nervous thought; that it would be typically Lankan if they had made the swan's neck too tall to fit under the lowest section of the bridge. I envisaged a resounding smack as the poor swan's head hit the underside of the bridge, then I'd have to try to explain it to the staff and god knows how the lack of head might affect the swan's sea lakeworthiness.

It was a nerve tingling few minutes as we made it under the bridge and I realised my fears were unfounded. In my defence I think the clearance between the top of Mr Swan's head and the bridge was only about three or four feet, pretty close by some people's standards.

K and I were a bit knackered from the pedalling, it was hot, not because I'm unfit or anything, and I thought that, in the excitement and fervour, I might have overlooked the time and we were probably near the end of our half hour. I checked my watch to find that we'd only been pedalling for five minutes.

We pedalled on, swapping around at the pre agreed ten minute point. My excitement stayed up at dangerously high levels and the girls ended up loving it too. There was something liberating and childish about it.

At one point we raced against another swan, losing the race but only because I let it happen. K also figured out that we could go backwards so we spent some time experimenting with that, cruising around and attempting to steer while looking out of the back window.

Our time was up and we headed back to shore, disembarked and left, all three of us were tired and happy.

It's a funny old thing you know. The whole holiday was a highlight for me, to spend time with the girls in Sri Lanka with C as well is more or less my idea of perfection, only missing a drum kit or two. But this swan trip is something that makes me smile a bit extra every time I think of it. It was the three of us regressing a bit, forgetting about work, school, angst and stress and just being kids having pure and unadulterated fun.

Since we got back I've made the girls promise that we go on a swan next time too.

They'll probably hate it.

But I'll love it!

What Would You Have Done?

Every time I go to Sri Lanka, something that happens a lot these days, I fly with Sri Lankan Airlines.

Is it because of the fantastic customer service RD?

Is it because of the modern, clean and efficient fleet of aircraft RD?

Is it because they offer such brilliant value for money oh Rhythmic one?

Or is it due to the airline's amazing ability to always take off and land within twenty four hours of the stated take off and landing time?

No, piss off. It's none of those. It's because they are currently the only airline to fly direct from London to Colombo, despite the fact that an almost one hour stop at Male, which adds about two or three hours to the journey, is still strangely called direct.

My need to be highly efficient with my annual leave and maximise my time there it's become advantageous to get there in as short a time as possible. So it's my choice, but there's hardly an extensive menu from which to choose.

Since the divorce, that of Sri Lankan airlines and Emirates rather than my own one, things on the national carrier have got worse, in its weirdly idiosyncratic way. The in flight entertainment system is now a hit and miss affair, it's just stupid to expect one that works and even more stupid to expect anything to be done about a broken one should you encounter such. For most passengers mealtime would be far simpler if the printed menus actually said

"You'll get whatever we've got left"

instead of the delicious sounding descriptions of the meal choices that they tempt us with only to continually disappoint.

There are other gripes I have, but this post wasn't to talk about them, though one of my biggest feelings is one of having nowhere to go, no one to complain to on Sri Lankan, as there seems to be not a soul that actually cares.

I'd like to ask you what you would have done if you'd been faced with the situ I met last week. I was returning to London with A and K, my daughters. If you're good at maths you'd already have worked out that there were three of us.

These days I know that the only way to get the seating arrangement you want, though far from guaranteed, is to go online and reserve it. Waiting until you turn up at the airport to check in is pointless unless you're the type who has outriders and the power to stop Colombo traffic when you nip down to the shops for a new Aston Martin.

So, some weeks ago I'd reserved our seats online, for both the outbound and the return journeys. For the girls I'd booked a window seat with the accompanying aisle seat and for myself the window seat behind them, something we're all happy with. They like to sit together and watch movies and sleep and I get to be close to them, though that's far more for my peace of mind than it is for them.

When we checked in I was told that the seat next to me had been blocked, a good result especially considering the flight was almost full, and I looked forward to some space and some sleep, all aided by my trusty inflatable pillow.

We got on the plane, took our seats, then put them back and sat down. Things were looking good. Then I heard some angry voices, well one actually and it was coming from an Indian woman. I joined in with the rest of the aircraft (we had no choice) and listened to the conversation.

It seemed that she was travelling with her husband and two young kids of about three and seven and they had been allocated seats that weren't all together. The husband was with one child and she was with another one with a considerable distance between each pair. She was protesting that she needed to be seated with both the kids, as they were young and needed to be with their mother, for the whole flight.

I must admit that this somewhat irked me. I was brought up in an environment that had some roles of the sexes but was largely mixed and I've brought my kids up, as has their mother, in a situation in which either parent does what's necessary at the time. When they were young I changed nappies, fed them, stayed up in the night with them and generally did whatever I could.

When the Indian lady was shouting and huffing that both her kids needed to be with her I found that I had sympathy for a situation, that of her kids not getting what they were used to, but I didn't agree with the fundamentals of it.

Then it became apparent that they hadn't reserved any seats, they had just gone to check in and only at that stage asked about getting seats together. I, the smartarse regular Sri Lankan airlines flyer, still felt sympathy but now it was mixed with smugness and annoyance.

The crew were trying to help her, using their best attempts at extrapolating logic to figure out who they could ask to move in order to give the lady what she wanted. K, sitting in front of me, was about fourteen steps ahead of all the adults with her logic and had already worked out the easiest solution. She shared this with me and I told her to keep quiet, as it involved me moving to South Africa or something.

Some minutes elapsed and then the stewardess looked at me. I tried my best to avoid eye contact, something that she seemed to be very good at whenever anyone tried to get her attention later in the flight, but I failed with a level of success that was simply astounding.

"Excuse me sir but would you mind sitting over there and then this lady could have these two seats?"

She pointed to a seat that was a bit of a distance away. It was easily within sight of my kids but would have eliminated any possibility of conversation with them without a journey involving asking several other people to move. As K still suffers from travel sickness I was concerned about this.

Meanwhile in the background the Indian lady was creating merry hell, shouting all sorts of rubbish about splitting up families, telling them at the check in desk and then issuing the ultimate threat, that of never flying with Sri Lankan Airlines again. Surprisingly the crew didn't appear bothered about it.

Fortunately K's earlier comment to me had alerted me to the possibility of being asked to move and I had rehearsed my answer. My thinking, that is to say the answer in my head if it were wholly unedited, would have gone something like this:

"No, fuck off. I reserved my seats months ago and the facts that the lady didn't and that her beliefs/culture/lifestyle choices mean that her husband is incapable of looking after a child for a mere eleven hours or so do not make this my problem. And I don't get to spend as much time with my kids as I'd like to so I treasure times like this anyhow. And I want a window seat, I love this country and like to say goodbye to it when I leave."

Of course, being the polite Englishman when faced with a situation like this, the actual words that came out were:

"Look, I'd like to help the lady, but I reserved the seats a long time ago, so I'd rather not move as I want to be near my kids (pointing a whispy hand in the direction of A and K (whispy because I didn't want them to see or hear and then announce that they would be fine if I moved)) (I like brackets you know)"

I'd figured that my answer, without committing to a firm yes or no, would leave the onus on the stewardess. And genuinely I felt some sympathy for the Indian mother, not to be confused with an Indian mother.

The stewardess looked at me and I could hear her brain working, trying to figure out if I'd agreed to her request or not. It became apparent that she'd taken my retort as a negative one when she sloped off and thanked me. I felt all manly and assertive, like an American or a Sri Lankan in a queue, not British at all, and I found it distinctly uncomfortable. I just managed to suppress my desire to shout after her and tell her that it would be fine, that I'd sit on the wing if it helped, as long as I could have a blanket or something when it got cold.

Guilt was flooding all over me. I was swimming in the stuff. Splitting up families, having two seats to myself, it wasn't the Indian lady's fault that she didn't know to check in online, A and K would be more than happy to sit by themselves, call yourself a drummer. All these things were rushing through my mind. The call yourself a drummer bit wasn't to do with the situation at hand, it just occurs to me at regular intervals anyway, I just thought it's better to tell you the details.

Then I saw it, heading towards me. It was a gangly Indian youth, or perhaps I should say ganguly. Everything about him was floppy. His hair, his limbs, his clothes and even his bumfluff, of which there was a fair amount. He looked as though he'd just dipped his face in the glue vat at the Post It note factory then walked past a barber's shop at the end of a quiet day as they were sweeping the hair onto the pavement at the front.

He brought some things, settled himself in the seat next to me and said something to his mother a few seats away. There was that hint of BO, BO covered up by cheap deodorant. It took some investigation but eventually I confirmed that it was from him, not me. I breathed a sigh of relief, a shallow one.

That was the solution, to move the lad next to me and rearrange things so that the irate Indian lady finally got her three seats together.

As you'll have realised if you've read this far, these things play on me. Was I too selfish or was I just asserting myself to get what I was entitled to? Should I have let the lady have my seat or were my feelings about her attitude towards parental roles getting in the way?

So, my favourite reader.

What would you have done?

"Shit! I forgot to wear pants again"

'tis the Season To Be.......

All Rambutaned up.

A Warning About The Colombo Pub Quiz

The week has been dreamily good so far. Mostly. There have been a few mood swings, temper tantrums, hissy fits and hormonal issues, but overall I've managed to keep things under control. By and large the girls, A, K and C that is, have behaved themselves too.

It's nice for the girls to see people who they haven't seen for a couple of years and there has been the usual plethora of the "my how you've grown" noises hitting all their ears at frequent intervals.

Last night I persuaded them that it would be fun to enter a team in the Colombo Pub Quiz at Barefoot. I thought that the four of us would cover a few bases and the addition of a few more chaps, the kind who read newspapers, we might stand a vague chance.

As the quiz began I realised that it's a falsity, a word I'm not even sure exists. I'd expected a decent mix of questions about drums and drummers, perhaps a section on Kottu or the Sri Lankan blogging community, maybe a chunk of questions on rock and/or funk music and possibly, though unlikely, some qs on the current Superdry range of clothing. Simple ones like the price of T shirts and polo shirts, nothing too complicated. I'd even had a glance at the day's papers, well the headlines, in case weird things like current affairs and politics came up.

But bugger me. The first surprise was that there were other teams there. How unfair is that? There was no mention at all in the ads and blog posts about this quiz of competition against other people. Then, these people were serious. The type who read newspapers rather than just look at the pictures of people being tied against a tree by leading politicians. The sort of people who can identify black and white pictures of dead people. The sort who read The Economist and know proper stuff.

We kicked off and promptly lost the first round. We may have come second in it, but the details aren't really important. There wasn't a single, no, not even one, question about drummers, Superdry or blogging. It was specialist stuff like general knowledge, science, sports and whatnot.

As we progressed through the night our team didn't. We stayed bottom of the table until David Blacker turned up with his brain. The combination of him, A and K gained us quite a few points. I caught him and K discussing things earnestly and ignoring the rest of our team at one point. It was a prudent move of theirs.

K came up with the idea of writing little love notes to Jehan at the bottom of our set of answers to each round. It was hard work but effective, gaining us an extra point at one stage. I like to think I contributed significantly, in particular when one question involved naming the missing Teletubby and I knew the answer immediately.

We delayed playing our joker until the anagram round, thinking that we'd do well in it. But in another cruel twist they made them hard ones, names of Hollywood stars and a couple of directors all jumbled up. Bloody ridiculous, jumbling up the letters in a round like that.

The end result?

Well we didn't come last, missing it by two points. I reckon a team of David Blacker with A and K would do better and myself and C could just hover in the background, getting them drinks and food, maybe massaging their brains every now and again to keep things going.

But, the barbecue chicken wings on the Barefoot menu are pretty damn fab, the Lion lager was cold, the atmosphere was balmy, chilled and fun and the night was a fun one.

Tomorrow we hit the hill country for a few days. I'm looking forward to leaving the hustle and bustle and seeing all those greens, feeling that smokiness and the slightly cooler air. Then we'll be back for a few days and off to Londinium again.

It's nice coming from a country like this, really it is.

Auf Wiedersehen Machan

Tonight I'll be Serendib bound. That is assuming I manage to get the girls on time, with their baggage, emotional and physical, both of which teenage girls have bagfuls of.

So, in the next couple of weeks, if you see a middle aged sort of bloke dressed in clothes he shouldn't be wearing being bullied and humiliated by two teenage girls then you've either borrowed one of those dodgy films that DD watches or bumped into us. Please say hello, buy me a drink and pretend you like and/or respect me. My daughters might just be impressed.

I expect LLD will go quiet for a couple of weeks, but one never knows. I just might have plenty of time to sit and write meaningless bits and pieces.

We'll see

Out for now.

RD

Some Random Thoughts.

Ephemeral ruminations you might call them.

This week it's all a bit mad and then it goes a bit calm, in terms of evening engagements for the next couple of weeks until I hit the motherland avec le petite enfants.

On Friday night I have my second gig with Solskala. It's going to be top night, I feel it and sense it with every whatsername in my body. Testicles, that's it, like Paul the Octopus has.

The night before I'm going to be hitting the town with the man that is the legendary Aufidius and a friend of his. I like the Auf, if I had a son I'd like him to be a bit like the Auf, only with my looks of course.

I thought slightly sad thoughts the other day along the lines of the fact that this will quite likely be my last holiday with the girls, perhaps there's one more with K, but A, at sixteen, is probably going to start going off with her friends soon. I suppose there'll be a gap of about ten years and then we might reconvene.

It's a bit sad but also it's life no?

From the time they were born I desperately wanted them to experience Sri Lanka, to learn about the country and grow up with that passion for the motherland that so many of us feel. I felt, still do, that it was my responsibility to show them what I could, then they'd make their own choices as they got older.

Have they got the passion and the feelings?

I honestly don't know but time will tell. The seeds look to be there, it's now the time to wait and see. I feel that they know Lanka a damn sight better than I did at their age, which is a start.

And, on the random tangential line, here's a question for you:

Do you think all kids want to do better than their parents?

Do you think all parents want their kids to do better than they've done?

How do we judge what "better" is anyhow?

Okay I lied, that was three questions, but I'd genuinely be interested in your answers. It's a thought provoking discussion I've been having with C recently.

Colombo Condom Buying

I won't go into detail but I a very good looking friend of mine had the need to purchase some condoms while in Colombo last week. For ease of writing and because I quite like the use of acronyms (with thanks to DB, an acronym in action) we'll refer to the friend as AVGLF from now on. It'll be best if you try not to confuse AVGLF (a very good looking friend) with AVGGLF (a very good Galle Literary Festival).

Here's AVGLF's story, as he wrote me an email telling what happened.

Take it from me, to the average man buying condoms is a total nightmare, some would say a total fucking nightmare. If you're a virgin, a woman who's never bought any, a man who's one of those irresponsible types or your surname is Durex and you own some factories then you've probably never been through the sheer mental turmoil that the rest of us face whenever we have to pop into the local chemist for a three or twelve pack.

For me buying the old rubber raincoats even in a liberal place like London is a bit of a turmoil. Some years ago I was with RD's Academic Bro and we were catching a flight somewhere. We'd checked in, were airside at Heathrow and he casually said that he needed to buy some johnnies. We went into Boots the chemist and he procured some, with an air of nonchalance, ease and comfort that I've only ever felt when buying Superdry clothes.

I was impressed. To this day I don't know if he was faking or if it was genuine. Since then further investigation has revealed to me that most men find it easier to go and buy a book on multitasking while doing several other things at the same time than buy condoms.

Buying them in the UK, where we have them on display on shop shelves and pubs sell them in vending machines, is a walk in the park compared to doing the job in the motherland, a country where condoms are only used by perverts and weirdos, the type of people who actually have sex.

I made my way over to Crescat and headed downstairs to the Food City bit. I like going there anyhow, a browse around the shelves to look at the wonders and delicacies of a Lankan supermarket is trippy and exciting for me. I got there and did my mooching, picking up an oily yet tempting looking jar of brinjal pahi as a present for my parents. No one can accuse me of being stingy. Then the fun started.

I ambled, in that casual way, to the chemist shelves, the ones that hold the shampoo, toothpaste and deodoranty things. I peered at the dazzling display of goods, paying particular patronising and laughing attention to an array of lotions and creams that promised to make you darkies turn into glamorously good looking white people within about five minutes. I thought of old aunts, those ones who talk about anaemic types and say "my she's lowely and fair, beauuuutiful girl, and she makes a delicious pineapple fluff too."

As all men can relate to I pretended to look at the other bits and pieces, in reality my eyes were scanning the shelves busily looking for the little rubber raincoats. One of the tricks is to make your eyes do the scanning without other people realising that's what's going on, like when you look at a good looking woman someone in the rear view mirror of your car but you don't move your head so they think you're still looking straight ahead.

I scanned and found nothing. I moved, pretended to look at the soaps and scanned some more with the same level of success. I moved again a few times until I ended up uneasily browsing the ladies' sanitary towel and tampon. No joy and I figured that they must be kept at the proper pharmacy place, that bit at the front where you can get all the medicines and antibiotics that require prescriptions and other such ridiculous Doctor's recommendations, here in the UK.

So the brinjal pahi was paid for and two minutes later any passers by would have seen RD's friend, had they known what I look like, peering at ventolins and other inhalers, staring at rows and rows of tablets as if my life depended on it. They would also have seen a pharmacist who looked a bit like a brown Derren Brown, amusing considering the surname, leering and sneering at me with that look, the one that said

"I know exactly what you're looking for and, purely because I'm a virgin / I'm currently getting no action / both (delete as appropriate), I'm going to make you sweat and work and I'll torment you because I've got a crap beard and because, well because I can."

Or something roughly along those lines.

After about nine, perhaps ten minutes too much browsing I plucked up the courage.

"Excuse me" I said.

Brown Derren looked at me. I checked my slipper to see if I'd trod in dog shit or something. I hadn't.

"Excuse me" I said again. This time his left eyebrow jumped like a kangaroo, one that can jump about a quarter of a millimeter very slowly.

"Have you got any condoms?"

"Uh?" he said.

"Bastard" I thought, but I'm not sure if I should have put it in inverted commas or not.

I repeated my request. Brown Derren had forced me to say it loudly enough for his spotty assistant to hear as well. Then he let rip with a burst of helpfulness unusual in Sri Lankan shops.

"Yes"

And there was silence, quite a lot of it, maybe a couple of kilos' worth.

"Ermmm, well where are they?" said I.

Brown pointed to a distant and hazy place behind him. Some would have called it a display cabinet. To me it was about as tangible as platform nine and three quarters. I looked at the cabinet and Brown Derren looked at me as though there we were in prison and he was Walker Texas Ranger on an undercover assignment. When I scrunched up my eyes I could see some boxes of condoms, cleverly angled in such a way that I couldn't read the packets or make out any detail.

I ask you, what does a chap do in these situations? Courageous examples of the male variety would brazenly demand to look at the things, perhaps try a few on for size and comfort before making a final decision. By now you know that I'm not one of them. I thought through my options carefully, pointed in the direction of platform nine and three quarters and asked for a couple of packs of "them".

In his final attempt to humiliate me Brown Derren forced me to ask again by pretending he hadn't understood me. My desire to ask if he had any in extra large, buy some and then go somewhere else and get extra small, my real size, was only beaten by my desire to get the hell out of there. At least I knew that I'd be out in a minute.

"How much is that?" I requested.

"What's that?" I said when he presented me with a piece of paper.

"You have to take this there and pay." he responded.

I was frustrated but figured that I was on the last lap and could see the finish line so took the paper and joined the queue. In England, when you buy these things they're normally listed as "chemists' goods" or something similarly innocuous.

When I got to the till the young girl took the paper, typed the number and up on the display flashed the words

DUREX x2

I squirmed some more, paid my money and moved on quickly, back to beardy Derren and his assistant. I did what you are probably very used to; showed the receipt, got the goods, got the receipt stamped and exited, in a split second five minutes or so. I'll never get fully used to the Sri Lankan way of using labour in this context, it always amazes me and just seems wrong.

That was what happened. I hope that one day I'll get to use the things. Next time I buy some in England it will be a gentle flowing breeze in comparison. Mind you, I bought six, that should last me a good few years.

And so went my good friend's story.

Leaving Again

I'm leaving Sri Lanka again and I feel a bit sad about that.

It's 4.30 PM and my flight is late tonight. I've got the window in my hotel room open and can hear the Colombo soundscape. It's one of crows and other birds, one of whom is packing and asking me how to tell if a bra fits properly, the wind rustling through the trees, the distant sing song sounds of prayers from a mosque and the rumble of diesel engines interspersed with horns. I wish all the bastards would shut up so I can think and write properly.

The week, though wet and grey, was a fine one. I think I'll regale you with the details laters, but there were things like music, quizzes, drums and stories of buying condoms. There was a ride, not a ride, in David Blacker's love cruiser mean machine and meeting some great interesting and fantastic people.

I got to try out the new Odel water, a must for every blogger about town and I bought my first ever sarong from Paradise Road, a purple, pink and reddish one that is my new favourite, despite my slight feelings of unfaithfulness towards Barbara Sansoni. I'm hoping Dom will forgive me and let me come back.

I took not a single photograph and it felt fine, like they're in my head instead of my memory card.

So that's it for now. Bye and thanks and see you in July when I'll return with A and K and unleash them onto you lot. It feels like I get that bit more attached each time.

Lord Of The Dance

Picture the situation. It was last week, though technically that will depend on when you're reading this, I was in Barcelona, that city of culture and Spanish miscellany, with C and she was perusing a guide book looking for things to do that evening.

"Do you want to go to the ballet?" she asked.

"Um. What?" I replied, using the old buying a bit of time by pretending I hadn't heard trick.

"Do you want to go to a ballet?" she repeated.

"Well, not really." I answered, with all the firmness and assertiveness I'm renowned for.

And so, at six o'clock that evening I was sat in a theatre, waiting for the ballet to start, pondering on my assertiveness skills.

Earlier that day the woman in the box office had told us that the evening's performance was a "children's ballet", only an hour long and "quite good". I'd succumbed, it was a rather picturesque theatre and an hour of watching blokes dancing around while dressed in tights couldn't be all that bad could it? Besides, I could change out of the tights later in the evening if I really wanted to.

Looking around at the other members of the audience made me uneasy. It was mostly women with their children, most of whom were girls. I had a bad feeling that we were about to watch a pantomime, oh yes I did. Perhaps when she had told us it was a children's ballet her English had let her down.

Two people appeared on stage. One was a woman and the other was a man, or was it the other way round? I forget, but it matters not. For about ten minutes they told us things in an animated, children's TV presenter fashion. Every word was spoken with big eyes, bold body language and more variety of tone than a xylophone player falling down the stairs (with xylophone) and having his fall broken by a couple of accordions. Sentences were littered with sporadic outbursts of dancing from our two performers as they explained through dance what they'd just explained through words.

I didn't understand the words or the dancing, which was a bit of a bummer really. But, it seemed as if the friendly couple were explaining ballet, or perhaps bad clothes and their effect on dance moves, to the children. I began to think that maybe this was it; an hour of teaching kids about ballet, getting them interested and hungry for it, all in Spanish, though it may have been Catalonian.

I'm forty four and linguistics isn't one of my things. On top of that ballet isn't one of my things. All in all I felt as if this might be one of those rare occasions when I left before the end of the show, even if it was only an hour. Then, before you could say something quick, the couple left the stage and were replaced by a group of dancers and some music.

I breathed in a huge sigh of relief. It wasn't traditional classical ballet, more a cross between that and modernish dance, clearly aimed at enticing kids into the evil, dark and murky world of ballet. It was quite good.

There were three of four more acts; one was a dance accompanied by an electro sort of soundtrack, another had a seriously groovy tribal thing going on and there was a bit of classical sounding stuff too. It was dumbed down for the kids and suited me perfectly.

The troupe performed their last number and wallowed in the rapturous applause. It was a full theatre and all were clapping enthusiastically, including me. The gang of dancers (probably an oxymoron) left the stage and ran down the centre aisle, giving it some large ones.

I was sitting next to the aisle. A dancer made eye contact with me and held out a hand. She was one of those girl dancers, the sort with a body made from chiselled flesh and probably used by Michaelangelo and other Ninja turtles as a model. It would have been rude to refuse so I countered by proffering my hand and shaking hers. I figured that I was British and a handshake, a well done, a metaphoric pat on the back were what was called for.

Well, I was wrong.

Before I knew it she'd pulled me out of my seat and I was being led towards the stage. Somewhere in my peripheral vision I could see that most of the other dancers had grabbed an audience member too. Now I'm pretty rubbish at estimating crowd numbers but I reckon there must have been around four hundred thousand, perhaps a million people in the theatre and, in a daze, I was onstage, front left, close to the audience.

The dancers were all going mental in a freeform modern dancing way. I looked around me to see the few other people from the crowd who had been dragged up there were dancing too, but all a bit subdued and mild. My dancer, her with the body, was telling me something in Spanish. It was apparent, even to me, that she was telling me to dance.

I figured that I was a foreigner in a foreign land, I was representing both Britain and Sri Lanka. It was a mad moment to consider my identity but I did, though failed to come to a conclusion. Instead I danced, like a total mentalist.

I pulled out all my moves, the ones that A and K would have absolutely cringed at, the ones that I was sure C would be cringing at. Afterwards she told me that she was watching through her hands, whilst they were covering her eyes.

I shook my legs in my best Elvis impression, I swivelled my hips sexily, I waved my arms above my head and spun around a few times, without falling over. I could tell that the dancers were impressed with me, sometimes a chap just knows these things.

Then things evolved into a slow dance, something that's slightly less my forte. And I say forte in a way that a fish can say his forte is mountaineering or BMX biking.

Dancer girl took hold of me and attempted to lead. I followed for a bit, then battled for the lead, changing my left hand position to gain control while being careful not to fondle her bum too much. Once she surrendered and let me lead I realised I didn't have the faintest idea what to do. For what seemed like hours but was probably seconds we did this weird dance. I managed to establish that the music was in 7/8 but she wanted to dance in 3/4 so we settled on 4/4 and went for it.

Then the music shifted gear again, into something I recognised; that Pussycat Dolls version of Sway with me. Again I pulled out some of my smoothest moves. I forgot to do the one when you lift up one leg, bend it at the knee and grasp the ankle with one hand while putting the other hand behind your head and shaking, but the rest were all there. I felt the spotlight on me, the eyes of the crowd and their gasps of admiration and I loved it. There's something about that song that makes everyone want to dance isn't there?

My dancing partner said something to me. I mumbled a phrase that vaguely sounded like "can you speak in English" and she told me I could go back to my seat now. Disappointedly I left my stage, for it was mine by then. I went back to my seat and the other people went back to their own ones.

As I got to my row I could see C, half laughing and half crying. She had the look of a mother who's just seen her child do really badly in the lead role of the school nativity play; proud but embarrassed, kind of hoping the child would go and sit in the row behind by mistake.

I sat down, knowing that I'd done it for my countries. It was good to find out that I haven't lost it. Well I suppose you can't lose what you never had in the first place. At least I know what it must be like to be the singer instead of the drummer now.

I've since decided that ballet's quite good. Though I did only reach out to shake the girl's hand.

The Case Of The Case (Missing)

Well I'm back from Barcelona and I hope you all managed to behave yourselves while I was away. Indi's back from his travels too, the issue of the Kottu popularity contest remains and we wonder if and how it will be solved.

Spain, Barcelona specifically, was rather fatabulous. I'd never visited the country let alone the city before so everything was new to me. It was a feast of colour, architecture, particularly of the modernista variety, culture and food.

Our (mine and C's) arrival in the city was marred by one thing; my suitcase didn't accompany us, just about every traveller's nightmare. We took two suitcases, we stood at the baggage belt and grabbed one of them almost straightaway, then waited while nothing much happened. I had an uneasy feeling immediately, mostly because these suitcases usually turn up together.

After a while we were left alone at a now stopped rotating baggage belt. There were two stray bags on the belt and neither of them, however much I stared at them and checked, resembled my one. I guess missing baggage is an everyday occurrence, you just never really think it will happen to you.

About an hour after the first bag had appeared we were in the queue for the lost luggage place. I was busily trying to be calm, manly and matter of fact about things whilst battling with a very problematic dilemma. We'd packed our own cases and there was only a slight bit of overlap, the toilet bag being in C's case, so she had all of her stuff and I had none of mine, bar what was in my hand luggage.

My battle was whether to feel pleased that it was my case missing instead of C's or to be a bit selfish and feel all sorry for myself that mine was the chosen one. I settled on feeling sorry for myself but pleased that, if one was to go missing, it was mine. Let's face it chaps, if you go away with a member of the fairer sex and their luggage goes missing, things aren't heading in a positive direction.

The somewhat miserable Spanish woman at the lost luggage desk punched some numbers into her computer and told me, with a certain sense of glee, that my bag was still in London. Against the odds I found myself feeling pleased, even when she added that it would be flying out in the morning and would be delivered to my hotel. As Neil Armstrong might have said, had one of his bags gone missing, it was one small step but in another way quite a big one really, knowing where the thing was.

We trotted off to out hotel, though when I say trotted I really mean cabbed. I had no camera, no fast lens and no spare clothes but toiletries, minus my can of deodorant, were safely ensconced in the lucky suitcase, the one that was with us. Miserable Spanish woman's word that all my things would arrive the next day was my saving grace.

The night would have been a test for any man, even a strong one like myself. For, packed in the stray Samsonite, was one of my top ten Barefoot sarongs, the one with the glowing bright blue squares, gold squares and the darker blue, you know the fellow. And, as I'm used to wearing a sarong in bed, being naked just makes me feel all, well, naked and wearing pants just makes me pleased I was never considered for the role of Superman.

The next morning I changed into my previous day's clothes, it wasn't a major hardship. C kindly offered me her deodorant. I pondered on the issue then declined, figuring that it was better go without than to smell like a girl. Luckily my moisturiser had made the journey in C's bag, so I maintained that clean mosturised look on the RD face, crucial when meeting foreign johnnies was on the agenda. We set off to look around Barcelona, me with the belief that I'd be reunited with the missing item of baggage when we got back to our hotel.

Getting back to the hotel in the evening was disappointing. There was no suitcase in sight and a phone call to the missing suitcase department (Spanish division) of British Airways told me that it was "out for delivery" and would arrive at an unspecified time. Later on it did, though it wasn't actually an unspecified time, it was in fact about eleven thirty.

The reunion was emotional. Me and Mr Samsonite have been all around the world and I was keen to make sure all the contents were intact. They were and the most important thing, the blue and gold sarong, was safe and sound. It was in the case exactly where I'd hidden it, in between the fast, expensive lens and the SLR.

I deodorised myself, threw on the sarong and unfolded and hung up my choice of clothing for the week. I was mightily pleased to regain possession of the clothing, the photographic gear, the shoes and all. But the thing I really had missed the most, that sarong with its blues and golds, was back.

Returning to London, our wait at the baggage carousel was tense and uneventful. All bags were present, correct and together and things went as smoothly as ever.

But I'm not sure I'll ever view the whole baggage and aircraft thing with the same relaxed attitude again.

Vut too doo?

Perhaps I'll pack a sarong in each bag, with one in my hand luggage just to be extra safe in future.

Hola From Barca

As you can see my Spanish is coming long nicely. I don't know the Spanish for "from" but two out of three can't be bad.

It's pretty damn cool here I tell you. The influence and feel of Gaudi is everywhere, the architecture is totally fantastic, more gothic than Gotham City itself. We've seen the Sagrada Familia once already and I can't wait to see it once it's finished, it will be bit special. I'm intuitive with these things you know.

Yesterday was C's birthday and we went to the local Picasso museum. Now you know me, I'm hardly the art aficionado. Obviously I know about Picasso from his perfume and work with Citroen but that's about the extent of my knowledge. Oh, and that he was a man who had periods too, that's some achievement.

We turned up at the museum only a few minutes walk from our hotel and were immediately confronted with a queue longer than the average one outside a European Embassy in Colombo, it was that long. Our immediate reaction was to reject the idea of the museum, save it for another day when the queue would be less. We trotted off and had a coffee in a place that was strangely similar to the Gallery Cafe in its feel, though we did get served before our flight home was due.

I've taken some pictures but haven't uploaded them so I'm going to attempt to describe things to you. How I wish I'd brought the Gypsy along, she would have been so handy to write all the descriptive bits so that you'd understand and feel things properly.

The area was one of thin alley type passages, quaint and ornate awnings, balconies and railings and a selection of pattisserie shops that felt as if they should have actually been in a chapter from a Dickens book. The weather was only about nine or ten degrees but dry and pleasant enough to sit outside providing one had layers on. I was wearing my new Superdry leather jacket, I haven't told you about it yet, but it's highly cool and trendy.

At the front of the queue, which was withing earshot of our coffee spot, was a geezer playing Spanish guitar. Being Spanish I suppose he'd be called a Jeezer, it matters not. The queue was full of excited but arty people and we changed our minds and decided to join it and wallow in the atmosphere for a bit.

The queuing reminded me of when I was a kid and used to go to watch Wimbledon, standing in line from about six in the morning until midday when we'd be let in to run to the centre court standing area, which doesn't exist these days. You see, that queuing was always good fun and everyone would chat a bit and feel nice and relaxed. This was the same, albeit for only about half an hour.

We got into the museum. C was looking forward to it in that very adult and normal way, I didn't know what to expect but was eagerly anticipating the unknown. I had read that this particular museum houses many of his early and less well known works and shows more about the artist's development as a painter, of his influences and studies.

Then I saw my first Picasso. I can't recall what picture it was, but I can recall the feeling. It was as if I'd been struck by a smallish bolt of lightening, not one of those massive bolts that Thor would dispatch, a smaller one that he'd probably get a minion to throw, but enough to make me glad I'd worn rubber soled shoes. The night before we'd been at the Hard Rock Cafe and I happened to look up and see a drum kit. It was Taylor Hawkins' kit, that for me was a massive lightening bolt moment, released by Thor himself.

Seeing my first ever painting by Pablo Ruiz, as I feel I'm allowed to call him now, was awe inspiring. I gawped at it a bit open mouthed, to be looking at something that had been made by his brush strokes, canvas that had been touched by him and colours and lines that had been chosen by him felt massive. God alone knows how these things must feel for proper art fans.

We ambled our way through the museum and it felt a bit like walking along the time line of Picasso's life. I noticed that in some of his very early works he's signed his name with the double s's that wrong way around. Then later on he started to write them normally, a good thing for sure as that backward writing just looks a bit crap.

There were a few rude pictures, which I stared at intently, pretending to be serious. I got told off by a friendly Spanish guide woman for trying to take a photograph. I smiled at her, did some kind of universal sign language to indicate that I didn't realise and then went on my way.

There were paintings of Picasso's mother and sister, his father and other close friends and it was rather captivating to read about his artistic development and influences. One set of photographs has stuck in my mind. It was a bunch of three or four taken of the great man and his wife on a balcony in the US in 1957 (I can't recall exactly where). The pictures showed him looking old but happy and rather trendy and bohemian in his attire; stripey trousers and casual sandals.

On this balcony were some birds, pigeons I think, in cages and fluttering around. It was the balcony of a friend of his.

Then, on the opposite wall in the museum were some paintings he'd done of the view from the balcony. I found this quite incredible. It was as if the photographs were true life depictions, factual representations of the scene, and opposite were the great man's artistic interpretations, with all his later life artistic weirdness and unusual perspectives.

That, I think, was my highlight in an afternoon of highlights.

We perused the whole museum, bought things in the traditionally overpriced gift shop and went off to have lunch.

In the evening we went to see a spectacular flamenco and opera performance. It even had a fat bloke in a suit singing, more about that later.

Have a good Monday out there.

RD

It's Been A Long Time.....

Well hello there. I haven't written a blog post for what seems like ages, but what is, in reality, about a week.

You'd think that I'd have an abundant flow of ideas for highly interesting and humorous posts, all the things you know me for, and be itching to get back to LLD and regale you with them. Sadly no, I've only got five, maybe thirty nine if pushed, ideas and none of them have even hatched into eggs yet, let alone draft posts.

There's an ongoing saga of K and what looks to be her first boyfriend. Should I tell you all about that or should I keep quiet? If I tell you I can guarantee you'll chuckle more heartily than a heart specialist at Apollo when he writes out his invoices for the week. But, there's the risk of K finding out about the post at some point in the future and then she might kill me. Or worse, she might give me a lot of grief. Not just any grief, I mean teenage girl toward her Dad grief, officially classed as the third wost type of stroppiness in the world.

What are the other two types RD? I hear you bellowing. Well the first is what's known as ex wife about a year before you separate grief. It's not nice, take it from me. Obviously the worst grief to face is something I'm reluctant to mention and put out in the universe. Even though my own one is floating around in Sri Lanka at the moment I know that these things can travel and hit a fellow right between the eyes when he's least expecting it.

Yes, at number one is Sri Lankan mother grief. PG Wodehouse wrote about aunts as the epitome of scariness, all well and good but he didn't have a Sri Lankan mother. Which would also explain why he wasn't called PG Samarasinghe and his first name wasn't Peter and everyone called him by his nickname of Panky. Or didn't call him by that name, you know what I mean.

In general it's fair to say the RD jury's currently considering its verdict on whether to tell you about K's adventures with the opposite sex yet. Well, the one boy, not that I want to even consider adventures, but, as a chap who used to be a boy, I can well imagine what adventures a fourteen year old kid might want to go on.

Reading. The act of, not the nondescript town not too far from here.

I've been enjoying the new Kindle, the e reader I told you about, big time. I look at the debates about e readers and e books with a sense of smugness. I've noticed that people who have an e reader rarely get involved in these arguments. We just get on with reading our devices and any of the many hundreds of books we can cart around with us everywhere we go. People who haven't got an e reader talk about the smell of books, the colour and the fact that e books will never replace proper books.

I agree with them wholeheartedly. But I don't think e readers are there with the aim of replacing paper books. I like both. But, fuck me, and I mean it, though not in a sexual sense, an e reader is such a fanfuckingtastic way to read fiction, as long as it hasn't got the Thompson Twins and a few Sansoni photographs involved.

And, on the matter of reading, I've started to read the Guardian. It's a newspaper, a slightly left of centre one. After more than twenty years of being a Times, sometimes an Independent, man, I've switched allegiances. Why? It's more fun, it's as simple as that. I reckon I've got to a certain level of maturity in which I'm nearly capable of filtering out opinion from fact.

Next week I'm off to Barcelona with C. This is seriously exciting, a load of firsts together. Our first flight together, my first time ever in Spain to name two of them. I've been practicing saying all the English words but adding a phlegmy throaty sound from the back of my throat. I'm told that's pretty much the basis of the Spanish language. If in dire linguistic straits I'll just shout, that usually does the trick.

And I booked a summer holiday for me and the girls. We're Serendib bound and I can't wait.

That's my news, I promise to write and tell you about it very soon.

RD

And Now We Are 2010

You'd think that my first post of the year might be one of those humorous and stimulating ones, regaling you with stories of my festive period and the incredible things that happened to me and my loved ones.

No, not because those things didn't happen, more because I'm lacking in inspiration. It's an interesting concept to me, not so much about what has happened but more about how a person views the events and is able to narrate them afterwards.

Here I am, back at my desk and about to deal with a bit of a work crisis that has loomed up out of the calm and quietness that was the past week or so. If I had a penny for each time I've thought that life would be easy if it wasn't for staff or customers I reckon I'd have about twenty four pence, sadly no way near enough to retire on.

The Lankanosphere is predictably filled and dominated by posts about the presidential election. Some are interesting but mostly I find myself feeling fortunate that I'm not a voter there. Why? Because neither candidate would be my choice yet not voting seems a waste. I don't envy you lot, I really don't.

I went to Scotland you know. Me and C drove up there to spend a few days with her friend. It was a nice and relaxing time with good company and fun and laughter. Edinburgh was covered in snow like one of those Danish Christmas cards. The drive there and back was fun and hard in a concentrating all the time sort of way.

At one point the driving machine told us that the outside temperature was seven degrees in the negative. The roads were mostly clear and gritted but demanded my attention at all times. The drive from Edinburgh to the motorway was about an hour's worth on an A road that was a mixture of every driving condition you can think of, except heated ones of course.

The snow laden scenery was spectacular. There were so many points at which I wanted to pull the car over, get out and take photographs but stopping on a narrow road in those conditions might have resulted in some fantastic pictures at a very high cost. We made do with C taking some picture on my phone.

The trees looked like intricate sculptures, the heavy snow making each one droop with an eyecatching delicateness. I reckon that God, should he or she exist and should he or she ever get bored of running everything, could easily get work as a sculptor or pehaps even an interior designer.

At one point we drove through a small village and just about every house had ginormous icicles hanging down from the roof. They were deadly and beautiful looking things, maybe like some would describe Angelina Jolie, not me though as she's not my type.

The trip also gave me a chance to fully road test the new Kindle. It passed the extensive range of RD tests with flying colours and I finished my first Kindle book, the third in the dangerously addictive series by the late Stieg Larsson. If you fancy a good thriller chock full of interesting but at times stereotypical charcters, then I'd recommend you go out and buy yourself the first of Mr Larsson's books. Whatever you do make sure you start with the first one and then move through the next two in order, trust me on that one.

Then, we get back and I find out that TMS has only gone and retired. What the WTF? as the youth these days say, when they're not writing Lankan political posts. It sounds to me as if she's about to embark on a journey, not one to Edinburgh in the snow, I mean one of life's ones. I wish her well and thank her for the words and for letting us into her mind, just a bit.

I'll be off then. I really must get on with the award writing stuff too.

PS - It's my birthday, keep it quiet though.