I don't Need No Invitations

Or reminders.

I don't want my reincarnated blogging life to consist entirely of mini rants, so I'll just write this one and slope off and try and think of something more jolly to publish for next time.

But seriously what is it with these people and institutions who insist on sending Outlook and Google calendar invites, followed by fourteen reminders as you approach the meeting time?

As far as calendar / meeting type stuff goes I reckon I'm pretty British. Despite my Lankan blood I am almost always early for things. And I mean properly early, like half an hour or more. The rationale is that by turning up early I avoid any chance of the loss of control lateness involves, that hustle and bustle of trying to rush and all that goes with it.

The non rationale is that I'm a bit obsessive about it, I just feel better for it.

Talking of calendars does anyone else have an issue with spelling the word? I always have a moment when I wonder if it should be "calandar" or "calender" before settling on the right way forward.

As I was saying, I reckon I'm quite well behaved and organised as far as my time management goes. I arrive early, I run my calendar on three different devices, all of which are synced (in theory), I play in three bands so have to make sure I know when I'm doing which gig with which band.

My life is totally governed by my calendar and task list. There are few things I have to do that aren't stuck into my task list and marked as completed when done.

I'm sure I could improve but I'm quite happy the way things are.

So, if you and I make an appointment, I put it in my diary and it stays there.

I don't then need you to send me a Google or whatever calendar invite. As the septics say; I've got this.

I don't need you, like my Chiro clinic and most places these days, to send me a reminder the day before. I know I've got an appointment with Nisha tomorrow at 3pm, I know I've got a hospital appointment on Friday at 9am too. They're in my diary.

Got to go, I'm running late for a meeting I'd forgotten about.

How To Make £1000

I was being chatted to by my sort of mate the other day. I say 'sort of' because he's one of these fellows who falls in the cracks between 'friend' and 'chap with whom I have a professional relationship'.

I say 'being chatted to' because that's more or less how things are with him and I. He talks, I listen, with the rare and occasional interlude in which he might ask me a brief question.

I'll give him a pseudonym; I think Brian Barry will fit the bill nicely here. As David Bowie said in the demo before he came up with a more rock and roll name, Barry plays guitar. He's not the best guitar player around, but he can get by and he's keen, interested and evidently tries very hard at it.

The conversation went something like this:

Barry: Guess what, I made £1000 last week.

Moi: Oh wow, how?

Barry: Well I've got this new guitar (at this point there was a rather long and even more boring story about his new guitar, why it's so good, how it's made, where he bought it etc. I'm a drummer, so I confess I didn't listen and wasn't really interested anyhow. The salient fact is that he paid £1100 for it. I'm going to close the brackets now, if that's ok with you)

Moi: I see. (more brackets, sorry about that)

Barry: And I was playing at a jam session the other day. After I'd played this guy came up to me and started asking me about the guitar. He asked if I wanted to sell it. I said ' well I paid £1100 for it, how much are you offering?" And he offered me £2000 for it.

Moi: Wow. (For I say that a lot. Thinking that is £900, not £1000, but hey let's not let truth and accuracy get in the way of a good story)

Moi (again I know): So did you sell it to him then?

Barry: Nah. I didn't want to.

Moi: Right, I see.


I suppose, had he started the narrative with something like 'guess what? I almost made £900 last week, but didn't', then it wouldn't have had quite the same ring to it.

But still, I mean, these people.

Pah!

Keeping Things at Arm's Length

 I've noticed something in the last couple of years. Just about everyone I know, including me, has got to that "certain" age.

It's that certain age when our near vision starts to deteriorate, when we're all in denial and battling it. Which means that only a few actually possess reading glasses.

The rest of us, when presented with a page of print or something else to read, do the thing: the thing when we act as if our arm is an accordion, but quite a big one.

I was at a band practice the other day and we had to read something. Not one of us could hold it close up, we all had to strain our eyes and try to hold the piece of paper far away enough to read. But not too far, because then it just gets lost. I figured this might be the time to either join a younger band or get some reading glasses, perhaps both.

Reading instructions on bottles is a particular bane. I reckon they print them in tiny fonts just for a laugh. And kids rarely need medicines and stuff anyhow, so there's some kind of mad logic going on there.

Sometimes I mix with young people, like my kids, and they'll hand me something to read, presenting it to me about four or five inches away from my eyes. I have to move it away at the speed of light before the eye strain starts to hurt, causing a headache and rapid need to lie down with a warm drink.

Good God, what is wrong with you people?

Have you no idea?

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Some Miscellany

1. This Southern Expressway thing. I worry about it. Really. 'cos let's face it, you lot aren't up there winning prizes in the best driver in the world competition, are you? The only rules of the road most Lankan drivers adhere to are the ones in your head. And you each have a different set in your head. This is bad enough at low speeds. At high speeds things are going to get nasty.

2. Things are getting all a bit Christmassy here in London. Every town has its Xmas lights on, the shops are full to the brim with festive goodies and I saw a real life Coca Cola forty foot Christmas lorry the other day, like in the adverts. I was so excited, I texted A and K to tell them about and they understood. No one else did really.

3. I played at Wembley Stadium last weekend. In a suite, the Royal Suite no less. Okay, it wasn't on the pitch itself, but it was a highlight so far of my musical "career". I have stories to tell.

4. I've decided that I don't like the normal "Drive" setting on the auto gearbox on my new car. I only really use it when crawling in traffic. The rest of the time if feels as if the car is being driven by someone's Dad on an economy drive. I spend most of my time with the gearbox in "sport" mode or just using the flappy paddles. Driving that way things are a bit wicked.

5. I just finished reading that Man Booker nominated book called Jamrach's Menagerie. It's brilliant, fantastic and I'd thoroughly recommend it, though it took quite a while for me to get fully involved. Once I did, I was hooked, like a fish. Or a hook.

6. My Dad's progress continues. He's now in his fifth cycle of chemo and things are as positive as can be. It's hard work though, not least in trying to keep him and my Mum motivated and happy.

Random Randomness

1. Had a long weekend in Italy, my first time there. More later

2. Experienced car spotting by proxy jealousy for the first time. More later. Let's just say Bugatti and Veyron for now.

3. I've discovered the FCB grid and the Lotus Blosson diagram. They're neither vehicles nor plants, but tools to help creativity. I play with them. Like a child with toys. New ones.

4. I've been thinking of buying a "man sofa". You know the score; dark brown leather, contemporary design that women won't like.

5. Initial results from my Dad's chemo are better than expected. Early days but good news nonetheless.

6. The iPad 2 - that question of when, more than if. The answer of "now" is getting closer all the time.

7. I looked up the definition of Schadenfreude. I see lots of people gulping it down with gusto with regards to the looting in the UK. That really makes me laugh. Seriously. Get over yourselves.

8. Not every list needs to go to ten.

Friday Randomness

Sorry for the blog silence. I'll explain more when I get more time to tell you about what's been going on. It's family business, not in the mafiosa way, just things that many face and we have to deal with, and has been going on for several weeks now.

But, as it's Friday, I thought it would be wise, in the lighthearted Friday mood that most are in, to give you some random spoutings. Here they come:

1. I think I may have a gay body part. It's not my willy though. It's my right hand. It has a tendency to flop and be a bit limp. I blame in on drumming, the Moeller technique specifically, something you wouldn't know about unless you're a drummer too.

2. I'm slowly, not very surely, beating a battle. It's a battle against a smell; that stale one that hangs around in dishwashers, my one in particular. I've tried every solution I can find and feel as though the combination is working. The problem is that I'm not sure what's causing the issue in the first place so don't know if I'm treating symptoms or the illness. Sometimes the symptoms are the most painful thing anyhow. It's like a metaphor.

It's ironic that the sentence "it's like a metaphor" is actually a simile. If that's what irony is.

3. I'm still reading David Blacker's book. My progress is hampered by the fact that it's a real paper book with not the faintest smudge of e ink to be seen anywhere. My god, how do you people exist without Kindles?

4. I've figured out a way of cheating when I play Guess the Music with A and K. It's that game where we flick through the music channels and the first person to name the artist and song correctly gets a point. For many months now the three of us have realised that my forte is when we get to the "old" channels showing 80s and 90s music. When it comes to today's tunes I'm clueless. However, last night I realised that if I lie about the song and artist the girls usually let me have the point as they don't know I'm lying. Keep that quiet though.

5. Loneliness is a fucker sometimes.

6. It's quite easy dealing with life when things are all fine and dandy, it's how you respond when things go the other way that really test a fellow's mettle.

7. New shoes, on me at least, take about a week to get worn in properly. Before that I just look if I'm trying on a pair of shoes that I've never worn before and am testing them for comfort.

That's about it for now, I bid you a grand weekend.

Ten Random Bits And Pieces

1. Cooking for one is a pain in the arse. I think I've almost given up with it.

2. I witnessed someone invalidating me the other day. I felt wise enough to recognise it, not react and just to move on.

3. It's a bit brass monkeys here in London right now. On Sunday afternoon I even had to turn my heating on.

4. I'm reading the legendary David Blacker's book; A Cause Untrue. So far I like it, in fact I'm engrossed in it. Innit.

5. I think I've found the perfect tuning for my new snare drum. It's one of my newest favourite things.

6. My in car CD player seems to have randomly fixed itself and is now remembering what was being played and going back to that place when I restart the engine. Which is nice.

7. I had a lovely day with K, the almost fifteen year old, on Saturday. I might write a separate post about it.

8. I'm learning about twenty five old soul songs, Stevie Wonder, Smokey Robinson, Martha Reeves and people like that, for a one off gig with a one off band. It's fun to learn songs in a genre that I haven't much experience in.

9. I've decided to stop using cinnamon when I make dhal. Radical I know, but sometimes one has to be bold.

10. I might buy the new Arctic Monkeys album.

11. Eleven is always a good place to stop.

12. As is twelve.

Territorial Pissings

I know it's a bit of a luxury but I have two bathrooms in my apartment. Attached to my bedroom is an en suite one, the sort that can only be accessed by going into my bedroom first. Though it's not at the back of the bedroom, it's one of those ones that you get to by going into the bedroom for just a couple of steps, then turn right and enter. To make things easy I'll refer to it as bathroom 47 from now on.

And, attached to the only other bedroom is another bathroom. This one has two doors; one coming off the bedroom and the other coming off the front hall. So it's an en suite and a communal one. Again to make things easy I'll call it bathroom 32.

When I was apartment hunting I realised that two bathrooms, though not essential, were pretty damn important. With two teenage girls frequenting my place, albeit sporadically, there were practical as well as timing considerations.

Girls like to go into bathrooms and do whatever it is they do. For ages. And then for a bit longer.

Men, we like to go in, have a dump, stink the place out, then leave. We like to read drum magazines and books, though we do draw the line at laptops or electronic readers. We like to sit and ruminate on the important issues in life; cars, women, sport and music.

And the two don't mix.

Secondly I realised that I like my own bathroom. I like to have a room where I and my loved ones can go and chuck out a few ablutions, not necessarily at the same time.

I'm happy for C or the girls to use bathroom 47, just not strangers, or even people that I know quite well.

I had thought things would be easy. A and K mostly use bathroom 32 as it's attached to their room. Sometimes they go into bathroom 47 and that's okay too. C, when she's around, tends to use bathroom 47 and again, that's okay with me, though I often have to drop a particularly nasty log to get rid of the smell of womens' perfume that wafts around after she's been in.

When there are visitors, should they need to point percy at the porcelain, I point them to bathroom 32 and all is good.

The system, not to be confused with the cistern, works. In fact, it almost works perfectly.

It's just that word, the "almost" that bothers me.

Look, I know they made me, gave birth to me, brought me up and whatnot, but still, and I probably shouldn't be telling you this, my parents' bathroom of choice is.............yes bathroom 47. Can you believe that? And it bothers me.

When I first moved in my Dad was pointed, to the extent that I even held the door open, firmly towards B32. He ignored me, went into B47 and it's been that way ever since. My Mum has followed suit. What can I do? They're my olds, I can't really tell them they're to use the other bathroom. But I kind of wish I could steer them gently towards B32.

Last weekend K had a friend staying over. On Saturday morning she said to me, in front of the aforementioned friend, "Oh Dad, is it okay if F has a shower in your shower?"

Well I tell you I was flabbergasted, with a capital flabber, though I didn't write it. I stuttered and faltered a little, then said, in a firm and assertive manner

"Yes of course it is K" After all I'm still British in many ways.

When F was in the shower I spoke to K to ask why, trying not to sound all territorial and eccentric, as if I was a bit of a nutter. She said something quite reasonable about the shower head in B32 not being very good. I told her that it was unacceptable, that guests had to use B32 and that B47 was only for me, C, A and K (when urgent).

At least that's what happened in my head. In reality I said something like "oh okay then, fair enough".

What do you reckon?

Anyone else have this territorial bathroom thing going on?

Stop The Knowledge, I Want To Get Off!

I like people who are always learning. I like learning. Therefore I like me.

At least, that's how it should go.

The thing is that I do like learning. I read voraciously, from management and self help books to fiction to magazines. I did one of those personality tests recently for work and one of the things it told me was that I'm the sort of person who thinks "time spent in reconnaissance is seldom wasted".

How true, I thought. There's a whole page of narrative about me, but one of the most accurate parts was the line above, how I like to research things and I keep quiet until I feel that I've gathered the information I need to before I venture forth with my opinions. Or fifth.

This sometimes makes me feel as if I lack a certain confidence compared to others. I see people who walk into a room full of strangers and appear calm, confident and illuminating and I wish I was one such fellow. Often when I meet strangers I go a bit tongue tied and appear shy. But then, once I get to know people and measure them up, I feel more relaxed and confident.

And this learning thing feels to me as if it's a continual and ongoing process, as if I'm always doing it, sometimes learning what not to do just as much as what to do, which is different to vut too doo. I'm forty five these days, so I'm told, and there are times when I think that it would be nice to put a bit of a lid on things, to say that I've done the knowledge, now I'm going to go out there and apply things.

Why am I telling you all of this?

Because I met a fellow the other day who made me stop in my tracks and think. It was at a meeting and I guess he's in his late twenties, possibly early thirties. He's clearly quite a nice intelligent guy, with some good ideas and a very good and positive energy and manner. But, he wouldn't shut up. It was his first time with this group and, instead of listening, measuring up the people, the dynamics of the group and the way we operate, as I'm sure I would have done, he spent much of the time talking, mostly about himself.

I let him talk. I was aware that he was taking up time but felt like an old wise owl letting the youngster have his fun before reeling him in.

And when you're talking you're not listening. When you're not listening you're not learning. And when you're not learning you're not moving forward and progressing. Which is a bit shit really, isn't it?

It's a rummy old thing that the people who know me would probably disagree with my perception of myself as someone who's a bit shy and lacking in confidence. But the thing is that they, by definition, are people who know me and who I therefore feel far more confident with.

So what do you think?

Is it good to bluff it and pretend that I'm far more knowledgeable than I actually am?

Or is it better to be a bit quiet but try to listen and learn?

Or should I read a book about it?

Panic Post

So I've never done this before but it's 3.56 PM here on Monday afternoon and I've given myself exactly one hour to come up with a post, one that you'll read in the morning. That is if I churn out anything even half worthwhile.

My currently active journal has a list of potential blog posts. There are twenty items on the list, though four or five of them are crossed through because the post has been written and published. None of them grab me at the moment, none are screaming out to be written.

Ah, here's something though; I'm not eating very well at the moment. Truth be told I'm a bit fucked off with food. This living on my own and cooking for one business has got me a bit pissed off. It's a lot of effort to cook when the only person eating is moi. Cooking when the girls are with or when C is with me is cool and fun. But they're not with me most of the time.

There's practically the same amount of time and effort involved in cooking for one as there is in doing it for three or four, it's only when one deals with the dinner party occasions that things get more serious. And a party of one is getting boring. You know, I can sit there and give myself compliments about the food. I can write a blog post telling you how lovely my chicken curry was the previous night. I can tell C or the kids about it.

But the thing is I might as well make up my reports. Whether it's you reading a post or anyone I tell personally there are no witnesses. I could be living on pot noodles every night and regaling the world with glamorous stories of sweetcorn and creme caramel with trifle.

So I've been eating lots of rubbish takeaways recently, rubbish in a tasty and unhealthy way. But I've even started to get bored of them. Take last night as an example. I was hungry, I was tired and it was a bit cold and miserable outside. I decided, after a discussion, perhaps more of an argument with myself, to make my own dinner. Only the contents of my fridge and cupboards would have made the average university student wince with pity.

There was French bread, some tins of Green Giant sweetcorn, some chocolate biscuits, a creme caramel thing and a one person trifle. I had been watching some Jamie Oliver earlier that day and was feeling inspired. What the hell I figured. I can make a meal out of these things, it can't be that hard if I set my mind to it.

I thought, I pondered, I browsed through the various smells in my spice cupboard and peered hard into the dark recesses of the other cupboard, in case I'd missed anything good lurking there. I hadn't. Stocks were that low and the situation was that desperate.

I started with the French bread. It was fresh and I had some nice French butter to go with it. I spread the butter on the bread, then ate it. Mmmm.... I thought.

Next I opened the Green Giant sweetcorn. It's important to get the "Green Giant" bit in there, for that branding somehow really does make sweetcorn taste that extra bit delicious. I poured it into a bowl and ate the stuff, being careful to eat those last few pieces. Revenge is a dish best served cold, which is how I'd opted to serve the sweetcorn, quite a coincidence I thought.

My French sojourn continued and I went for the creme caramel. They're clever these Frenchies and this one was the sort I could turn out onto a plate perfectly, with it's darker caramelly section on the top and that mouthwatering sugary juice floating around the plate. At first, when I upturned the container, the dessert stayed stuck fast but a quick snap of the little plastic tab attached to it and the contents get released as if by magic. I continue to be marvelled by the ingenuity of our Gallic cousins.

And then I ate it.

There is no better dessert than trifle. Ever. In the world. And I mean proper British trifle, not one of your Sri Lankan hotel buffet ones with everything tasting that bit too sweet. Definitely not one of those American ones that have mincemeat in them either. I realised recently that my problem with a trifle is that I like not only each individual ingredient, the fruit, the jelly, the cream, custard and spongey bits, but I also like every possible combination of each of the ingredients.

A mouthful of jelly with some custard is lovely. One of fruit and cream is delish, one of jelly, sponge and fruit is, well you get the picture.

So I wolfed down a trifle (individual portion) too.

That was it, that was dinner. And frankly I felt shallow and cheap and used, rather like a chap must feel after being seduced by Britney Spears and Lady Gaga. At least it was healthy, though Lady Gaga's average costume contains more meat.

For some time I contemplated nipping out and getting a takeaway. No, I was stronger than that. I mooched around a bit feeling sorry for myself then skulked off to bed with a good book, about thirty of them actually because it was my Kindle that I took with me.

Tonight I'll get a takeaway.

Some Friday Fear

And you thought your commute was tough!

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.

This Blog Is Not Dead, SL2G And England.

Either.

It's just that everyone seems to be writing posts about their blog, how it's alive and still in existence. I like a good bandwagon and I like jumping too.

Here are a few random jottings about things going on in the RD life.

Tomorrow (Thursday 24th June) a group I'm involved with called SL2G is hosting a screening of a fantastic documentary called "Do we really want to live like this?".

It's in central London at 7 PM and will be followed by a (hopefully) stimulating discussion and social intercourse. ( I said "social") If you want an invite let me know, numbers are limited but we'll do our best to squeeze you in as long as you tell us you're coming.

If the screening and the discussion isn't enough to get you interested then let me tell you that you'll get to meet the legendary man of architecture, photography and general intelligence. The man that James Bond, Geoffrey Bawa, Dominic Sansoni and Stephen Hawkins all cite as a major influence. Yes, The Auf will be there, signing autographs and breasts.

Here in Londinium things are in a different reality mode. We're all getting ready for the match this afternoon, the usual England playing football and needing to win thing. It's going to be one of the hottest days of the year in temperature and in atmosphere. Which is cool.

I'll be picking up the girls and rushing to my apartment to get there for the kick off. Tomorrow morning the nation will be in a spiffing mood or a terrible mood, like a country with PMS. I know which one I want.

I've found these buckets of small cheeseburgers at Tesco. You chuck them in the microwave and end up with rather delicious burgers. I'm going to buy bucketloads of these buckets to accompany us in the match.

Last week I played what was almost definitely the worst gig I've ever played, only beaten by the one a week before. Lack of audience, lack of involvement and lack of England being able to score against Algeria contributed to the badness. Do I regret the gigs? No. That's the thing, we didn't know beforehand that's how they'd turn out.

It's K's fourteenth birthday on Friday. I asked her what she wants and, after a bit of thought, she's settled on money. Funny really, it seems like she's been fourteen for ages. In just over a month I'll be taking the two of them to the motherland for what I've realised will likely be our last holiday together, until they get much older and it all comes round again. That makes me a bit sad and a bit happy. The cashiers at Odel should get ready for them though.

I've been asked to be a guest on Ashok Ferrey's new chat show. We're at a bit of a stalemate because of a couple of my demands on my rider. They've told my people that a couple of drum lesson with Dave Grohl and Taylor Hawkins is okay but they can't stretch to supplying so many string hoppers (white).

I have a story to tell you about some Dad envy too. A has a friend, a boy, which alarms me as there's lots of chatting to him and all, and his Dad is in a band. Can you believe that?

I'm trying to find out what type of band, what he plays, whether he's any good and all the relevant details, will keep you posted on that.

That's it for now.

RD

Some Random Bits And Pieces

1. Sometimes it's nice to write a numerical list. I usually start with number 1.

2. I'll be heading your way soon. "Your way" is relative and largely dependent on where you are. But I think you know what I mean.

3. Today I have taken delivery of a highly trendy Wassily chair. Well, it's not an original but a copy. It's dark brown leather and the newest addition to RD Towers.

4. I've been rehearsing with a fantastic band, or collective, of musicians called Solskala. I'm very excited by this project. We have a couple of gigs coming up in the next month or so. The music is grooving Latin funk influenced and fun, with a capital F, so Fun. Check out the choons, you'll love them.

5. I've been watching quite a few other drummers recently and have been very conscious of a half baked theory floating around in my head, threatening to become fully baked at any point, but never quite getting there. It's about chaps who can do all the technical things, flying around a drum kit with dexterity and fluidity that I can only dream of, yet they just don't groove. What exactly is groove? I don't know, but I feel when it's not there.

6. On the listening side of things I can't find any music that grabs my attention. Plan B came close but hasn't done it.

7. My sister in law did the London marathon. I'm full of admiration for her about this.

8. C's parents are going to be staying with me at RD Towers for a few days. I'm shitting large bricks about this.

9. I've been buying lots of Superdry stuff.

10. There is no number 10, it's vacant, like the number 10 on Downing Street, sort of.

You Thought Sigiriya Was Bad?

Check this. I swear I was an exhausted bag of nerves by the end.

Random Things I've Been Randomly Doing

1. Seeing Muse

2. Gigging

3. Trying to work out a drum solo for gigs using paradiddles and Kandyan rhythms.

4. Having quite a few headaches.

5. Pondering on why the steering wheel is one of my most important things in choosing a car.

6. Learning about Maslow's hierarchy of needs. Not to be confused with a grandmother standing on a stepladder. That's a higher Archchi.

7. Hearing a slightly disconcerting noise coming from within the bowels of my MacBook.

8. Eating a breakfast, one a day actually.

9. Trying to keep track of the Dear 16 year old me tag.

Et vous?

Nothing To Say

It's Sunday night right now and I've got so much to tell you that I've ended up with nothing to say. Does that make any sense?

I've got a list of about ten subjects that I might write a post, or ten posts about.

There's the Muse gig on Friday night. I might write a post or I might just tell you that it was absofuckinglutely fanfuckingtastic. The latter method is probably far more descriptive than I could manage if I tried to get all reviewerish.

There's the tangential story about A and K's behaviour at the gig and how I wondered if I was a cool or an embarrassing Dad. But that's for another time, maybe when I've decided which one.

Or you might be interested in A and her purchase of the four inch high heels. If you're one of the female type who reads around in these parts I think you'll chuckle at and relate to my tale of watching her try to get used to her first pair of high heels, for a party on Saturday night, how I looked at her with that parental mix of horror, love, fear and pride.

My thoughts on watching the Sri Lankan woman on TV the other night, on "Come dine with me", might interest you. She won the competition yet made herself look like an idiot and I pondered on how an individual in a foreign country tends to represent their home territory, in a rather ambassadorial sort of way.

The Dear sixteen year old me thing seems to be tagging along quite nicely. I must admit I'm quite proud of it, though it wasn't my idea at all. It's proving interesting to see what we all think we've learned, the mistakes we've made and the good things we've done. I'm waiting for someone, just one person to announce that they'd actually had sex before they were sixteen. So far no one, not even a Blacker or a Point.

I drew up a chart this afternoon to see who's tagged who and how far it's spread. I might take a picture of it and chuck it up for all to see at some point.

But I'm just going to wish you a happy Monday and write about all this in more detail later.

So, there you go.

Happy Monday.

The Lost Sri Lankan Beauty

I was browsing through some old photos and came across this one. It brought back so many memories.

I guess it must have been about twenty years ago, on an unnamed beach somewhere down south. The weather was warm, the fishermen were out on their stilts. Palm trees swayed in the ever so gentle breeze and the sun slid gently down towards the horizon.

At first I saw the vivid splash of red and thought of Baywatch, as men do. She ran in my direction and her hair, like her breasts, undulated gently. I'm sure if there's such a thing as an undulation that's not gentle, but that's not important right now.

In that split second, as she headed towards me, I made a decision that I've regretted all these years. It was the decision to grab my camera and focus, quite literally, on taking a picture. I could have stopped her to talk, maybe got to know her and who knows what might have happened.

I got the picture, I missed the girl. Her beauty faded into the sun and I was left wondering if it was a dream. The picture told me it wasn't.

I never saw her again, but here's the picture, perhaps you know her.

Sometimes I wonder what might have been....

Up Or Down - The Sunday Morning Dilemna

I bought myself one of these beauties yesterday and all with it is good and fetching, with one little exception.

Polo shirts, over here in the metropolis, are all the thing and have surged back into the fashion charts in the lat couple of years, with a couple of new touches. The first is the slim fit. No longer are they baggy and bulky and suitable for a man with a beer or rice belly to hide his wares in. No, slim is the thing, or fitted as it's called. The slender and muscular look is with us.

The second is the collar. You kids are wearing it folded up, pointing skywards, something I'm uncomfortable with. It's not been an issue for me on the two other new trendy ones I've bought recently, the collar's looked okay worn folded down, as a good shirt is meant to be used.

But, this new Superdry one has a collar that feels stiffened, it's evidently designed to be worn folded up. Worn in "normal" mode it looks and feels a bit clunky, it just doesn't feel quite right.

Worn up it looks right but feels wrong, as if I'm trying too hard to be cool.

Vut to dooo?

I'm going out in a minute too.

Zed's Dead

As the child of a Muslim father my name, as is customary, contains more Z's than an N factory that has fallen on its side. If you know me you'll probably know that I have one in my first name and another, just in case you missed the first, in my surname. To some, those with a Z fetish, I'd be considered lucky.

I hate Zs though, so I don't consider myself lucky. I do on other fronts, just not on the whole Z issue. Zs, or zeds, as it should be written, as letters go, are definitely the worst letter in the English alphabet.

We can't even agree on how to pronounce the letter zed. You lot in Sri Lanka chuck a mysterious E in front of it when you say the letter, it becomes "e-zed". Americans call it a "zee" and we, us Brits, call it the proper "zed". No other letter suffers so much for its own existence.

It's also a comedy letter, the only time it's valuable is in scrabble, if you can think of a suitable word to use it in, but you never can, unless you're Amila Salgado.

So I've decided to start up a protest group to get rid of them. I've even thought through the implications, something that's rare for me.

It's only us Muslim types who use them in names anyway and they sound harsh and weird. Some people would have to change their moniker, thought interestingly not people called Monica, but usually an S would do the job and give the name a nice softer feel anyway.

Nazreen Sansoni is the only blogger I can think of, as well as myself, who would have to do this. I may ask her, but I reckon she'd be okay with the idea. She already has a couple of Ss in her name so another might even make things easier.

Things on the Muslim side of my family however, may get panicky. Removing the zeds from all my cousins' names could be the linguistic equivalent of global warming. Suddenly there'd be random vowels all over the show creating imbalance and possible disaster. Most of my cousins would be called a name that sounded like that noise a cat makes when it's got a fur ball. Further thought here would be needed.

Those gods of music would become Led Eppelin and Frank Appa. Page, Plant, Jones and Bonham would, I'm sure be fine with the idea as everyone would know the band from the new name immediately. The late Frank, or his representatives, will be a bit pissed off. Let's face it Frank Appa sounds like a Sri Lankan Grandfather more than the innovative musical legend he was. I say that with my apologies to any Sri Lankan musical legends who are also Grandfathers, I know it can happen.

Countries are no big deal. Zambia, Zimbabwe and Zaire would still be recognisable either with an S at their beginning or just carrying on with the next letter. The odd country that has a Z inside its name, perhaps Belize, wouldn't matter at all. No one really knows if these places are spelt with an S or a Z anyway so it would just simplify things.

And let's look at everyday words that have zeds at the start, well there aren't that many. I opened the zed section of my dictionary and it reads like the last chapter of a book, which it is, when the author has got bored and deiced that he needs to finish it. It's like those crap songs at the end of a good album that no one listens to and no one remembers. There are words like zein, zend and zedoary there. Let's face it we don't really need those sort of words do we?

The zoo would suffer, but it's a fairly dated concept that many think is almost extinct anyhow. The zebra crossing might be an issue, though not in Sri Lanka for two reasons. The first is that no one pays any attention to them, so they can be called anything for it wouldn't matter.

The second is that they're yellow and black which IS NOT THE COLOUR SCHEME OF A ZEBRA, unless it's one in camouflage. But, the camouflage would be useless unless it was a zebra that was trying to hide in a Sri Lankan zebra crossing factory. Or in a liquorice allsort factory. Mind you, this may explain why we never see zebras in these places.

As for the zephyr? Well it's just some kind of wind thing that was named after the old Ford. It's not important these days.

The icing on my cake of an argument has got to be those Americans, Microsoft and spellchecking.

Americans, because they're too lazy to think about whether an S should be pronounced as hard or soft, have changed everything with a hard S to a Z. So apologise becomes apologize, specialise becomes specialize and, well, you know the score.

Spellchecking is disastrous for the civilised world because of this. This will all change.

There you have it. Zeds must go, you know it makes sense.

It's Sunday night and I'm off to get some sleep. Or, as we say here, I'm off to get some zeds, or seds, or eds.

Happy Monday all.