About This Blogging Thing

I like the whole area of blogging.

It's nice and relaxing at times to jot down a thought or two, to tell a few "regulars" what I've been up to and what's going on. Some of the blogs I read regularly are fascinating and stimulating, rather like one of Britney's better videos, Slave 4U perhaps.

Cerno's post about having the time to blog got me thinking a little. When I started my blog I only had one preconceived notion; that I'd try to keep things positive, not rant and rave about things or people and not make it a "moaning" blog, and outlet for negativity. The rest was a freeform thing and I had no idea that I'd gain a bit of a readership.

As time has gone on, which I find it does except in Dr Who or Back to the Future, I've developed some more principles that I apply to my blog. They're my own principles and they may or may not apply to you. If you haven't got a blog then they won't apply to you for sure.

The strongest one is that I don't want to sail through my everyday life thinking about whether I should do a blog post about everything that happens to me. I'm quite content to have an experience and think that it might be interesting to write about but I don't want to analyse everything in my life in terms of its "blogability".

It means that London, Lanka and drums is not as fascinating as many of the blogs I read regularly. Java sent me an email the other day with the name of a new blog he has found that he recommended. I checked it out and it really was a great one, instantly readable and instantly captivating. But something about it bothered me and after some thinking I realised what it was.

It was the fact that the girl who writes it appears to spend as much time writing about her life as she does living her life, that she thinks of life as one big blog post. That's cool, fine and dandy, but it's not how I want to be.

I was on holiday in Poland last year and one of the thing that struck me was the way I saw many tourists taking photographs of the sights of Gdansk. Lots of these people were rushing around from one place or one building to the next and taking picture after picture, hardly looking and hardly experiencing with their own eyes and hardly feeling things for themselves. They'd see everything through a lens, on a viewing screen on their camera in the evening back at the hotel, but they wouldn't remember it for real.

That's my big judgement call for my blog.

I want to live life, experience things for myself and really feel them happening and love, hate or anything in between them. I want to climb Sigiriya, feel the wobbly steps, really look at the view from the top and really get attacked by bees and really feel what it's like. Then, if I fancy it, I might do a post about it.

None of this living for blogging stuff, certainly no rushing up there, taking a few snaps and rushing back down to do a post about it.

So my advice to Cerno is just to get on with life and enjoy it, then blog about it whenever he's got the time.

It's Tag Nice Week on Ach

Java, the wise old owl, published this post in which he talks about the way many leave negative and personal comments on people's blogs, how they can be hurtful and vituperative. Now I have to tell you, for the sake of transparency, that I hadn't the slightest clue what "vituperative" means and had to look it up in my dictionary, where it says that to vituperate is to "berate abusively".

I read some time ago a piece by Edward de Bono in which he said that "creative and critical" are 2 of the types of thinking. It's pretty obvious what exactly they are and they're not mutually exclusive in a person's mind by any means.

I get pissed off by people who are continually critical, I'm probably not alone in this and guess that many of us go through life frequently thinking that so and so should try and do it better if it's that easy. I find it easy to take criticism if it's from a person who has established their credibility with me and I find it extremely hard to accept someone as credible unless they have a level of success or expertise in the area they are criticising.

The sittingnut comment thing on Indi's blog is a stunning example of poor quality thinking. If you disagree with a person's opinion that is your right. If that person has a blog then the comment facility usually gives you the right to voice your opinion on that person's blog. But to go on attacking the person's family, their personal stuff and to make childish comments is just, well, childish.

We bloggers demonstrate a level of creativity by the very act of blogging. Some of us are more sensitive than others, some are thick skinned and some are bang in the middle. I got frustrated with all the "we get it" tags on Achcharu simply because I thought it was cowardly to hide behind anonymity. If I knew that it was Java, Darwin, Ian or any one of my favourite bloggers who was doing the tagging then I think I'd feel differently about it. I respect the things they write.

One of the books I'm reading at the moment is about people who invalidate others. It's intriguing and stimulating and has taught me that there's a type of person who seeks to feel secure and superior by running down others. It's a mentality that deals in scarcity, thinking that if I make you feel bad then I'm better than you.

By just mentioning Mr Sittingnut I'm guilty of being critical of him, I'm not really being constructive nor am I really being creative. Or am I?

The Sri Lankan blogosphere, or the whole blogosphere, is full of opinionated people. We can set out our opinions without censorship and we can censor the opinions of others without recourse. Blogging is a phenomenon that continues to amaze and intrigue me. I can write anything I fancy and I get a certain amount of readers.

But, the bloggers who are driven by a desire to get vast readerships are the ones who I feel for. There's something warmly satisfying about sitting back, writing about drumming, kids and life in general and not caring whether I get a million or as little as ten thousand hits a day.

Either way I won't be off making vituperative comments on anyone's blog, particularly now that I know what it means!

These negative critics, the bad taggers and the downright childish twats are just energy drainers aren't they?

I've noticed that I have had a few people in my life, some of whom I genuinely consider as friends, who really do drain my energy. It's fascinating to notice this and to be aware of it as I'm interracting with these people. It's not that the people mean it, just that they go on and on about bad stuff.

What's more is the revelation that, by knowing it and observing my mind going through the draining thing, I can actually have much more control over it. It's been a big discovery for me, one that will have big and good consequences.

And now I see that Drac has declared it to be Tag Nice week on Achcharu.

Good for him.

In On The One

I mentioned that I'd had a few days in Singapore last week, that the flight coming back was my best flight ever. After I landed I had an interesting and fun evening. Here's what happened.

I got into Heathrow at about 3PM, rescued my car from long term parking and headed home. I must confess that I always feel good to get back in my car, to put my foot down a little bit and enjoy a bit of German performance. Of course, this being West London, when I put my foot down it's invariably on the middle pedal, but the principle remains.

This time getting in the car still felt pleasant but it was all a bit miserable. I'd left behind the warmth of Singapore and the tropics, I'd flown past Sri Lanka on the way back, even contemplating asking the pilot if he could just take a small detour and drop me off in Colombo. I reckoned it was only a few inches away on the airmap thing and he might just have said yes. And here I was in the greyness and vastness, the pissy rain that you don't feel but makes you soaking wet, of my birthplace.

As I sat in the bus going from the terminal to the car park I saw my plane parked on the runway and thought of the vastness of air travel and the wonder of it. Slightly over 12 hours ago I had been getting on that plane in Singapore and there it was standing on the London tarmac, probably about to take off again as soon as its army of support staff had done its duties.

I drove home, I unpacked my case, which took me all of about 5 minutes. Then I made a few phone calls. The usual stuff; the office to be told that everything was fine, the girls, to be told the same, that kind of thing. A quick shower and then I headed out into the evening for a Mimosa band practice. I felt fresh and good, the sleep on the plane was nice and tiredness was something for wimps.

I got to the studio and sat around for a while, chatting to the people that I've got to know and waiting for the band before us to vacate. They're a nice bunch of chaps, I've mentioned them before and we've all got quite friendly over the couple of years. Their music is rocky in an Indie sort of way, a little bit American sounding but somewhere along the Muse, Creed, power chordy tangent. I've sat in and listened to them practice many a time. There's not the slightest hint of funkyness to their sound but I mean that in the nicest way, just that they're a rock band through and through.

As I sat in the reception area they came out of the studio for a fag break. Just for the sake of the American contingent a fag break isn't some sort of beating up gay people thing, it's a break taken in order to smoke a cigarette, those things that non Americans often light and inhale. Mike, the singer, the one with tattoos all over his arms and the voice of a bank manager looked at me with a glint in his eye. He then explained that Sam, their drummer, wasn't there and asked if I'd like to sit in.

I jumped at the chance. At worst it meant I'd get my kit set up earlier than usual and I'd be fully ready to play when the other Mimosians turned up. At best I'd have a good blast playing some songs that I had heard enough to have a vague idea of how they should sound, but were also unknown enough for me to have to fly by the seat of my pants. I grabbed my drums, bunged them into the studio and set up as quickly as I could. They continued playing as a trio without drums while I set up, desperate to join in. It's nice to listen to them with Sam, the regular drummer. He's a fantastic player, a music college kid with more technique in one hand than I have in my whole body.

I'm also confident enough in my own playing to know that I'm an ok player if I concentrate on doing what I do best, which is to sit there and carve out a groove. Ask me to sound like Phil Collins in his Genesis drum days or to play No One Knows with all Dave Grohls fills and I'd be as lost as a Aussie rugby fan looking for his seat at the world cup final, but to play 2 and 4 and make it feel good is something I can approach with some confidence.

I was set up, I sat at the kit and they began a song, one I was vaguely familiar with. The great thing about being older, as a drummer at least, is the knowledge that flashy isn't necessarily good, that the basics are what makes a good drummer. Now I'm not saying I'm a great drummer, but I know that getting gigs and getting work, being asked to play in bands comes from being solid and playing the basics really well.

The bassist, the one who wears make up and has a penis, looked at me and gave me a nod to indicate that they were expecting some drums soon. I did a little sixteenth note intro and came in with a bit of a bang, which was good as drums do tend to make a "bang" sound. If I'd come in with a "twang" or perhaps a "twarp" then I would have been on a guitar or trumpet and I would have sounded like a total wanker.

The reaction of the band was positive. They all looked stunned, pleasantly so. I listened hard to what they were doing and tried to play what I felt was right for the song. There were no funky ghost notes on the snare, there was not much in the way of deft little touches around the kit but there was plenty of power and punch. We finished that song, naturally I totally fucked up the ending, something I can do to songs I know intimately and have been playing for years.

Then we moved on, 2 more songs followed before it was time to finish. During the last song Greg, the percussionist from Mimosa, strolled in. He looked a little startled to see me playing with these guys, probably a mixture of surprise that it was me combined with shock to hear me playing that style of music. It was interesting to watch his reaction as things registered with him.

As the others packed up they were very complimentary about my sound and my playing. It was nice to hear and it was good to feel, but I was as pleased as punch anyway. A brief break from the norm can be such fun sometimes and this was one of those things. As well as the fact that they're a good bunch of chaps with some fine songs.

Then we started our Mimosa band practice. I was warmed up, damn near boiling actually and perhaps a bit too rocky to start with, but I mellowed and got into it in a big way. The contrast between the two styles of music was fascinating.

I often have these affirmations in my life, when something happens and it acts like a little nudge. It doesn't change my opinion and it doesn't make me formulate a new one, but it reminds me, in quite a large way, of how or why I love the thing so much in the first place.

This reminded me just how much I love to play music and drums.

And I do.

Smelly Cat

There I was, recovering from the laser surgery, peacefully and boringly. Not that I was boring, more that I was bored. Bored shitless mostly. In part because the painkillers I had been given also had some side effects.

I coudn't read, as my eyes were focussing on different things at the same time and I felt a bit like an early autofocus camera; focus was something being permanently hunted for. I could only spend small periods of time on the net or laptop as it would strain my eyes for the same reasons.

Even practice wasn't something I felt like doing, it just wasn't comfortable to sit at the kit and play with my eyes as they were. I still can't figure out exactly why this was.

I couldn't drive, unless I went on a route that only involved turning left and sticking to the left side of the road. I had thought about an anti clockwise drive around the M25, sticking to the inside lane, but it just didn't seem appealing. Even if I could have gone for a drive I was faced with the problem of glare as the light hurt my eyes. You're probably thinking that I'm used to it from the glare of flashguns from the paparazzi but you're wrong, I'm not.

So all I could do was to hang around, I listened to some music and I did some cooking, my new hobby.

Then, on Friday afternoon I got a text from the almost ex, to say that Aliya the cat had died. Apparently the girls had found her dead outside one of the bathrooms in the morning and had gone off to school leaving Aliya still there. I felt a bit of sadness, even though I'm no ardent animal lover. I knew that the girls would probably be upset and that wasn't a pleasant thought.

The girls and their mother were going to dig a grave a bury her that evening after school and work and I, ever aware of my duties and stuff, offered to do the job for them. As I was unable to drive because of the eye this meant I had a walk of about 20 minutes, a virtual marathon for me.

I got through it though, arriving to find the house empty, except for one dead cat and one alive one, who seemed to be pining and did get some quite genuine sympathy from me. I've never had much, or any, contact with dead cats before and I was a bit saddened and rather fascinated by Aliya's lifeless body.

As I ambled towards the house I had ruminated on the fact that I'd have to be sure the feline was dead before I buried it. How would I be sure, I thought. Where does a cat have a pulse and how would I find it?

Yet, as soon as I took a look at the thing I knew it was brown bread. It had only died a few hours ago but it was stiff and rigor mortis afied. It was like one of those stuffed animals and the side that had been lying on the floor was straight where it had been in contact with the flat surface. The tail was stiff and cold and I could pull the whole cat by the tail alone, as I found out.

There are a lot of foxes in West London. They roam around at night destroying bin bags and creating havoc. As Blackadder almost said, some of these foxes are more cunning than a fox that's Professor of cunning at Oxford University. And I'd been advised that, when burying a dead animal in the area, it's best to dig deep and cover the body with stones so the Professors can't get to it.

I found a spade. I called it a spade because that's the type of chap I am. I also found a pitch fork thing, then chose a suitable spot and commenced digging.

The whole area around Teddington is built on some sort of clay stuff. I'm no expert on geology but I think it would be scientifically accurate to say that the soil structure, perhaps it's called the topography, is a bit of that earthy stuff, the stuff that worms go for, and then rock hard stuff, the soil equivalent of Vinnie Jones.

So digging to any depth was a challenge. Digging to the depth required to bury a dead cat was challenging alone, but digging to the extra depth required for a dead cat, lurking foxes and all with Vinnie's presence in the ground was some sort of super hero feat. And that would be a super hero who hadn't just had laser surgey on one eye too.

Once I hit the hard stuff I was faced with two options; either carry on digging around the hard stuff, making an ideal grave for a pet jellyfish or possibly a fairly old tortoise, or get in some heavy equipment and labourers to do the job. I went, a bit predictably, for the whole jellyfish option. I ended up with a hole, about cat length but in all honesty it didn't look about cat depth.

Confusion reigned supreme when I realised that the hole was of entirely different lengths and depths depending on which eye I used. Through my left eye, the one which has not yet been fully fixed, the hole was fuzzy at close range and deep enough to bury a giraffe at long distance. Through my right eye, which was healing from the recent surgery, the hole was pin sharp at close range, if a hole can be pin sharp that is, yet shallow and fuzzy from any sort of distance.

Whichever eye I used to look at the cat made no difference. Aliya was very dead, probably almost 100% dead, or should that be 900% in the case of cats? I had left the body in the house, thinking that the girls would be back from school soon and they'd very possibly want to be solemn and present when I buried it. I never know with girls of these ages, 11 and 13, how they're going to react to anything. Sometimes they're emotional and caring and other times they're cold, unemotional and teenagerish about things. Actually I never know with girls of any age about moods, predictability and logic. In fact I'm unsure whether a sentence has ever been written with the words "girls, predictability, moods and logic" in it.

I waited around, tried ringing the girls. The 11 year old's mobile was cleverly placed in the kitchen, no use whatsoever and the 13 year old's wasn't answering so I decided to save some time by carrying the body outside and leaving it by the grave, to await the arrival of the mourners. I walked to the body and visually inspected it. Now carrying bodies isn't something I have experience of and I was hesitant about what to do. It just didn't seem right to carry the body as if I was cradling a live cat, particularly as this body was hard and flat on one side. Then again, it didn't seem right to hold the tail and carry it in the style of carrying a dead mouse, especially as the tail might not be strong enough and I might be left with the task of explaining to the girls why said tail had become detached from the cat.

Some weight and tolerance testing was needed and I tugged at the tail a bit. All looked ok, so I tugged a bit harder. I went for it, I lifted the whole cat up by the tail and carried it out to the garden and to its grave. I know you're probably expecting a story about the tail snapping and the hilarious comedy consequences but nothing of the sort happened. The tail held and the body made it to the grave, there was no disaster. Well apart from the whole cat dying business of course. I left the body by the side of the giraffe grave ( I was using my left eye) and waited for the girls to arrive.

After about half an hour there was till no sign of them and I was getting bored and anxious. I didn't want to hang around for too long so I convinced myself that I should get on with the burying. I figured that the girls probably woudn't mind anyway. I looked at the cat, feeling a bit sad actually, it seemed a bit poetic in a way. With the pathos over I bunged the body into the grave, legs pointing skywards, the cat's legs not mine. I had been unknowingly clever. By a miraculous coincidence the legs were sticking out of the hole by about 2 inches, the exact length of the average man's willy. I knew that more measures had to be taken. And quickly. I could go for the humanitarian option of taking Aliya's body out and trying to dig down a bit further. This would take lots of time and there was a risk that the girls could come back and realise that I had already buried her once and was now on the second attempt.

Or I could try the sensible course of action; the one that involved some shoving with the spade and a bit of leg bending. It would be quick, the cat was dead and the girls would come back and not know what I had done. It wasn't as if I was going to write about it or something and they might read it in years to come.

I was sensible, I shoved a bit, I bended some legs and I hurriedly filled the grave with the soil that had come from the hole in the first place. I had also put some rocks on the body, apparently this helps to stop the foxes getting to it. Then I put the heaviest flower pot I could find on top of the grave as an extra anti fox measure. And obviously I put a little bit of brick to act as a headstone and to mark the spot.

I went in the house and was about to leave when the fron door opened. The 11 year old strolled in with one of her friends, all attitude and hormones. They were accompanied by a cloud of smell. It was that scent of grubby schoolchild, the odour that is rather pleasant when the child concerned is your own but smells like crap when it's anyone else's child.

"Ah hello" I said.

"I've just buried Aliya, I waited for quite a while but then I wasn't sure how long you'd be so I did it on my own." I continued.

I was prepared for a barrage of tears and upset, perhaps some demands to dig the body up and do it all over again in the presence of others.

"Oh cool, thanks Dad, we're going upstairs then" she replied.

She had gone for the "not that bothered" option, which is typical of her, this time I was quite pleased about it. We said our goodbyes and I walked off to make my way home. Ten mnutes later I got a call from the 13 year old. She wanted to tell me about some stuff and, as befits the communication between sisters of that age, was totally unaware that I had left their house only a few minutes before. I told her and told her I had buried Aliya.

"Oh Dad, we wanted to be there and do it with you." Was her response, one that I felt bad about. She is the more outwardly sensitive of the sisters and this reaction was predictable.

"But actually A, it really was hard work, I had to dig for ages and it was quite knackering" I said, assuming that the work aspect might make her a bit less upset.

"Oh really? That's ok then, thanks Dad".

It was that easy.

Life goes on.

PS - I'm listening to Placebo. What a fucking great band!

Recently in The Sri Lankan Blogosphere...

I thought I'd pen a few words about blog things that have been happening lately, more specifically Sri Lankan blogs, or ones that relate to Sri Lanka.

Ian, the1truecoolguy, looks to be back. I have spent way too much time wondering if, and when, he'll regret choosing that name. I reckon by the time he gets to 26 he'll be wishing that he'd chosen something more like "Ian Selvarajah" as opposed to something that will definitely embarass him in the future. No matter though, his blog is always lively and we hope his comeback post will be the start of many. Well not the start of many comeback posts but the start of many posts.

Stateside N, aka childof25, has been getting heavy and political. His post on the state of Sri Lanka, whether it is a failed state, has created interest and comments and his next post about Sri Lankan politicians behaving like pigs at a trough has upset many. There have been angry protests by pig supporters everywhere and N's has been refused entry to several pig farms as a result.

Julesonline and Beatrice Hannah have both been missing Sri Lanka. Jules has been eating dhal on toast and Bea has been job hunting and going to Sri Lankan restaurants. I know what they mean about missing Sri Lanka. While we in the UK are getting used to 36 hours a day of darkness and the wearing of jumpers and frilly underwear you lot in Sri Lanka are enjoying blistering heat and the one of the highest rates of inflation in the world. And when I said frilly underwear, I meant thermal of course, although Jules and Bea may well be wearing frillies. Even though these two aren't really blogs about Sri Lanka or listed on Kottu and Achcharu I still check in and see what's going on with them regularly.

Indyana has been busy too. She's been on a youtube bender checking out all her childhood favourites. Personally I was pleased to read of her love for Paddington Bear and Steve Austen. Only the other day I was pretending to run bionically up the stairs at work. There's a knack to running in slow motion, dropping your shoulders and humming the theme tune that only men of a certain age group can appreciate. She has also shipped, or planed, her Mother in Law off to the UK. Cruel, but understandable.
And, searching for "youtube bender" may not be advisable.

Ravana and Childof25 are both running caption competitions with pictures of Mahinda at the moment. Frankly I have been disappointed with the standard of entries on Ravana's post so far. N's is still in its infancy, but my vote goes to the "pile of crap" line so far. Not that I'm biased.

Over in the motherland itself many bloggers are dealing with some serious stuff.

Cerno is getting used to married life and dealing with the whole transport and logistic thing that a wife and in laws bring to the table. I reckon he's in for a shock if and when there are a few little Cernos to add to the transporting thing. That's when he'll have to consider buying his own trishaw, on which some great artwork won't go amiss.

Confab, he of the band, has been in hiding. He has been totally shitting himself after reading reports of an "armsgiving" to 100 senior citizens. Everytime he sees Java or someone else over 85 he body searches them and tends to get a few swift kicks in first.

Dominic Sansoni, he of the cameras, lenses and sarongs, has been snapping away at cricketers and stripes. His work is of the usual high standard but I have emailed him to let him know of a problem he hasn't spotted. The picture of Malinga has somehow come out with a whole load of strange streaks in Malinga's hair. Must be some dirt on Dom's sensor or streaks on the lens.

Last and by no means least I come to Darwin, probably the best blogger in the world. She's been facing "Dingleberries" from the Russian who doesn't use toilet paper. I was upset and disappointed that she called him "RD" and would like to make it clear that not only do I use toilet paper but I also use the moist Andrex wipes too. She has also been out for dinner with the Russian fellow, but keep that to yourself for obvious reasons. I hope she stayed away from the Dingleberry pie on the dessert list. She followed this up with a post to prove that she really is an academic, all about fasting and science, real complicated matters.

She mentions circadian rhythms, something I've been trying to master for some time now. I'm nearly there but can't quite get the bass drum pattern yet. I may have to consult Shiraz Nooramith on this for some help.

And those are the ones that have caught my eye lately. Notable quiet blogs have been Java's and Lady Luck's, we hope they're back soon.

That's all for now, I might do this as a regular thing if anyone's interested in the blogs I read. We'll see!

Girls, Drums, Fathers.

Allow me to tell you about a situation about which I'd love some opinions. It's to do with my 13 year old daughter and drumming, two things I'm rather fond of.

The 13 year old, I'll call her "A", has been learning the drums for a few years now. She has a huge mother of a bucketload of natural talent, unlike her Father, before anyone else says it. She plays in a couple of bands at her all girls' school and could go quite far with her playing if she wants to.

She loves the recognition that she gets from playing in bands. At her school she's known as the drummer girl, although there are a few others who play too. Her drum teacher, a good friend of mine who taught me as well, thinks she's got genuine talent and potential.

Being her Father and a drummer means that I am probably the least objective person in the world about her ability behind the drumkit. I think most parents are wary of trying to live out their dreams through their children yet we also can't help but want our kids to realise their potential.

The problem I have?

"A" hates to practice the drums. She loathes it. She loves the back slapping when she does a gig, she loves to play with other people, she even enjoys her lessons. But, getting her to practice is painful and nearly impossible, like one of Sach's piercings.

Her ability, and I apologise if it sounds as if I'm blowing my own trumpet, which would be weird in a post by me, a drummer, about my daughter's drumming I grant you, is such that she can do a minimum of practice yet still understand and do well in her lessons, even thought the lack of practice is evident. When she has to learn something for a school concert she manages it easily. I guess being surrounded by drums and drummers helps.

But, in the context of having lessons and doing the necessary workload in her own time, she just isn't interested. I'm uneasy about this. If there's one thing I'm uncomfortable about in life, apart from farting in a small room and deciding whether to run or stay, it's seeing wasted talent.

I also don't want to force her to go for lessons if she won't put the workload in. So far there's been no strict rule in place, I haven't come down hard with a big stipulation that she has to beg before I book more lessons, but I'm also not the sort to book lessons and force her along. As a kid that's what happened to me with piano lessons and I never really feels it's appropriate to make a child do something if they're not interested.

Yet to call her not interested is not strictly correct either. She likes the lessons, she learns and improves in them but, by hardly practicing, she doesn't progress at the pace she could.

Currently I've told her that I'll book some more lessons as soon as she really wants me to do so. I might have shot myself in the arse as it were, in that we've reached a bit of a stalemate, or one of those catch 23s.

So children, parents, drummers or those who are none of them, what would you do if you were in my position?

How To Have a Great Flight

After a quick trip to Singapore I got in to Heathrow aiport at around 3 PM on Tuesday afternoon. Normally I would have felt totally knackered after the long and arduous flight and the time difference of 7 hours.

But fate was on my side. My flight had been half full, or half empty depending on your point of view, whether you're a Singapore Airlines manager or a lucky passenger. I was the latter and had the most enjoyable flight I've ever experienced. I had 3 seats all to myself, luckily they were next to each other, so I spread out and made myself comfortable.

As we took off I watched Singapore disappear beneath me. I watched the ships waiting in the sea and I saw what seemed like a million high rise tower blocks become tiny specks and vanish. Breakfast was served and I devoured it, I don't know about you but I tend to like aircraft food, even more so when there's a bit of table space available either side of me.

After breakfast I lay down and slept, probably getting a good 6 hours in. It was a luxurious situation that I wallowed in. When I woke I read, wrote in my journal and listened to music. I'm an avid avoider of in flight movies for a couple of reasons; first is the fact that they're so often edited to within an inch of their plot to keep them aircraft safe and second is the fact that I struggle to enjoy anything on a screen that small.

So I wrote lots of stuff in my journal, just random thoughts to no one in particular, some of which I'll use in blog posts, some I'll read at some point and others that may be ignored forever. I've kept my own journals / diaries for a few years now. They're therapeutic for me, ways to put out my deepest thoughts, often with the knowledge that no one will ever read them but sometimes with the faint thought that a future generation of little RDs might discover them and find out about their ancestor (me). Sometimes I write things that I want to be read by someone specific and use the journal as a simple means of putting something in draft form.

The music I listened to was a hard hitting combination of genres and styles. I had a band practice that night so figured I better listen to some Mimosa and get "in the zone" so to speak. I spent about an hour listening to us live. It's a strange and slightly disconcerting thing to do.

I like, no, I love our music. I'd like to think that it's the sort of music I'd buy and listen to if I just heard it randomly and it had been played by someone else. But I can't tell if I'm just totally biased because it's us and any semblance of rationality I have goes flying out of the window. On top of that when I listen to a live recording, which this was, I wince at my own performance. I evaluate and think of things I might do differently in the future. It's nice to think of continual improvement but I sometimes wish to be able to just accept it the way it is and enjoy it. Oh well.

After that I went to some Abba. While some fellows love The Police, Stigmata and Joe Zawinal, I readily admit to a love for Abba. There was a very obviously Australian tourist occupying the whole of the middle row of seats next to me. I knew he was Australian without hearing his voice. He was middle aged and wearing clothes that displayed not the slightrest hint of any awareness of the existence of the whole worldwide fashion industry. He had white towelling socks on and trainers that had been designed for something ridiculous like sport.

His hair was spiky from lack of styling and he wore a hat. Fundamentally I think I'm an anti hat sort of person. They're fine if you're a spaceman or a policeman or a construction worker but not for general use, just because you think it looks good. But this was one of those rounded soft materialled hats, I don't know the name and it had 100 or so little metal badges on it. Those ones that people buy as souvenirs from Cheddar Gorge and Stonehenge and the like. I expect he must have taken about an hour to get through the metal detectors at the airport. Clearly he was Australian, that was the only explanation.

He looked like the sort who never ever listens to music, let alone likes it. So you can imagine my surprise when he rose from his slumber and took out his personal CD Walkman thing. Double edged surprise it was as I didn't know there was anyone in the world that listened to anything other than an iPod and I hadn't expected him to be a music lover.

That surprise changed into a new type of Gillette razor and became triple edged with aloe vera strips when he started to play note perfect air piano. I wish I knew what music he was listening to as he began to perform. This was no teenager playing air guitar and thrashing away at wild and vague power chords while headbanging. No this was definitely a pretty competent pianist at work. He was picking out every individual note with his right hand and the left was thumping out some serious rhythm.

As I air drummed to "The day before you came" and tried to play the perfectly suited drum fills our eyes met and we gave each other one of those musicians' smiles, one of mutual respect and mutual love of music.

He still looked like a pillock though.

The flight wore on with more of the same, all good and actually very relaxing. We landed, I queued with all the immigrants and held my British passport with that strange sense of pride. Then I went out into the London cold to find my car and pay the extortionate long term parking fee to have it released. I steamed home, unpacked my case, which only took about 4 minutes and had a bite to eat.

Then I headed off again to my Mimosa band practice. As I hit the delights of the M3 and traffic I thought that was probably the most relaxing flight I've ever had. Wow, next time I'll book 3 seats to myself, that's the answer.

Dhalemna

What's been going on?

Well I've been away in Singapore for a couple of days, so there's plenty to tell you about that. I've got a list of around 11 possible posts I could write from the one about the joys of Abba to the question of whether Sri Lanka is a failed state. Needless to say the respective summaries of those posts are along the lines of "greatly written songs and a blonde with a gorgeous bum" and "not yet, but it's well on the way".

My Dad's dhal recipe is in popular demand, a post outlining it seems very likely, filled with a bit of discomfort on my part. You see he, or his wife, who is also my Mother, know nothing about the whole existence of my blog. You can imagine the problems that would ensue; daily phone calls from my Mum to complain about this and that, questions and suggestions and routine criticism, just like any Sri Lankan mother and son's average life really only slightly more extreme.

But I feel a bit awkward about the idea of publishing my Dad's dhal recipe. It's not exactly a big secret, he probably wouldn't mind a bit, but he wouldn't know that it had been put out for all to see.

I asked academic bro for advice on this situation. He gave none, well nothing useful. Some stuff about pretending that it was my recipe and then that would be ok. I said that that would be plagiarism, or maybe dhalarism.

He told me that I have lot to learn about ethics. He's right, but it's not as if I'm going to write a post about the conversation or something.

And I don't want to give his dhal a big drum roll, which you'll find unbelievable as you'll probably know about my whole drumming thing. But I don't want to stick the recipe up and then find lots of people try it and hate it. Frankly I don't think I'm man enough to face that level of rejection. Nor do I know if one can do a dhal drum roll. That could be a question to put to the Dhal Foundation for sure.

But I've promised to send the recipe to Indyana anyway, so I'll have to type it up at some point and then may as well put it up on the blog. Be warned though.

If, in a few days' time you see a recipe for dhal here and I say that it's my recipe, then it will actually be my Dad's recipe. Just don't tell him if you know him or meet him. But, if you do grass me up then please tell him that I only did it because one of his other sons, the academic one, told me that it would be ok.

Thanks.

The Dhal Foundation - Part 2

Continued from here.

Although Part 1 had a different title, you know the gist.

So my first attempt at dhal was about to take place. I pulled out the handwritten recipe, I pulled out all the ingredients, almost. I thought that the preparations were done but was missing two things; lemon juice and saffron. As a novice I figured that only two things wouldn't be that important, there were about ninety four other ingredients and that's not even if I count the lentils individually.

As a random aside has anyone else ever wondered how many grains of rice there would be in an average portion? Or is it just me that thinks about these sort of things?

Indyana, if you happen to read this I'll type up the recipe and email it to you as soon as I get the chance, I'm reluctant to post it here as it's a family secret passed down from one generation to me, and my brother.

There I was though. Some frying was involved, some boiling, mustard seeds, onions and lots of spices that I didn't know the name of if it wasn't for the fact that my Mum had bought them all and given little labelled jars when I moved in. Sometimes these matriarchs have uses.

I followed the instructions devoutly. Where I had written "boil" I boiled, where I had written "this much" I used exactly this much, not a bit less or a tad more. Cleverly I had taken my Dad's instructions on quantities and translated them into something that could be understood by me. So, when indeed he had told me to use "this much" I had converted it into teaspoons or tablespoons worth and written that down. Of course, he was cooking for about ten people at the time but that was fine, I knew that dhal keeps and I'd eat about two white people's portion in a sitting, so I figured that a supply of five day's worth was reasonable.

My logic was sound, if I could master the recipe for ten people then, at some point in the future, I'd try to adapt it for less people, but it wasn't important. Taste was the crucial thing. Parippu cooks quickly, far more quickly than it takes to chop stuff up and fry other stuff. I'm definitely no Pradeep Jeganathan. How fellows like that manage to cook up all these marvellous meals, get the food to pose seductively and then take the perfect photograph I'll never know.

I had bits of onion and lentils, stray chunks of maldive fish and odd bits of Vater drumsticks all over the place. The drumstick thing is true and odd. When I moved in I realised that the wine rack in the kitchen is a perfect place to store new sticks, so much more practical than sticking bottles of wine in there.

After about half an hour I had produced what looked remarkably like my Dad's dhal. There unfortunately the similarity ended. Frankly it tasted like something from the extra mild section of the Tesco curry for kids meals.

I ate it and digested things, literally and metaphorically.

Then I tried again the next day. I had gone to Tesco at lunch and bought lemons and saffron. Fuck me, have you seen this saffron stuff. It cost me about £3 for a tiny box that weighed about half as much as one of those helium balloons and it didn't make my voice go all funny either. But it was part of the recipe and I knew it was important. even though I couldn't recollect my Dad using it by sight.

That night I followed the instructions again, with the addition of lemon juice and saffron. I also bunged in a little bit of chicken stock, my own addition but something that has become a core ingredient of all my dishes, except the chicken ones. This time the dhal tasted entirely of saffron.

But I'd started to enjoy the adventure. I was getting a handle on what things tasted like what, which spices did which things and added specific flavours and aromas to a dish.

I ate it and digested things. Again.

Day three. I did it again and I wasn't even remotely sick of dhal. It's good being a Sri Lankan. This time I used even less saffron and a bit less lemon. I had got the lemon balance correct but that overpowering saffron taste was still there.

I ate it and digested things.

Day four. I knew that I shouldn't fry the onions and stuff for too long. I had done that the previous day and they were just a bit too black, the taste was slightly too strong. I knew that the saffron was still an issue but didn;t know the solution, I knew that chicken stock was a useful ingredient, just not to be used in the presence of vegetarians, unless I just kept quiet.

Finally I'd come up with a dish I was almost completely happy with, there was just the saffron thing outstanding. I'd used hardly any of the little red wrinkly stuff but it still overpowered the parippu. Unlike so many of the Australians in the world cup final I was stumped. So close yet so far.

I ate it...you know the rest.

The next morning I went into work and I knew what I had to do. I rang Dad.

"Dad, you know your dhal"

"My what?" he said.

"Your dhal" I said.

"My dhal?" he asked, as if I had presented him with Einstein's theory of relativity and asked him to explain it.

"Yes, your dhal"

"Ah, my dhal, what about it?" he asked.

"Well I've been making it for the last few days."

"You've been what?" he asked. You know what these Dads are like.

"I've been trying to make it for the last few days" I explained.

"Trying to make what?" he asked, as I'd confused him.

"Your dhal"

"I'm what?" he said.

"Not you, your dhal, your parippu" I elaborated.

"Ah what about it?"

"Well how much saffron do you put into it? I wrote down half a teaspoon but it just seems way too much" I told him.

"Saffron?" he said in a puzzled tone.

"Yes, you said half a teaspoon of saffron"

"No, you don't put saffron in it, are you mad?" he asked indignantly and Sri Lankanly.

"But you said"

I then told him how I had written it down, bought some at great expense and spent several days making dhal and getting obssessed by saffron.

"No, not saffron, I meant turmeric, that's what we call it in Sri Lanka" he said.

My next words were along the lines of "oh thanks Dad, bye", but my thoughts were unprintable, or unbloggable at least, full of swearing towards my Father, full of bad and nasty thoughts that just shouldn't be shared. So I won't share them.

The conclusion is good. I can now make a dhal, with a half teaspoon of turmeric, that tastes like pure delight. It's been tried on a few people and it's a joyous success. I can still only make the correct amount for about ten people but that's ok.

I told Lady Luck the whole story afterwards and she seemed to have a vague explanation of why saffron and turmeric could be called by the same name when transalating from Sinhala to English. I didn't fully understand but it all made sense to her.

I'm happy. There are more recipes to learn and I'm hoping they need saffron as I've got a lot of it in the cupboard.

The most important thing I've learned is that when my Dad says saffron, he means turmeric.

Bear Necessities

For most Sri Lankans bears are wild things that get spotted occasionally in Yala and other jungle areas. They're brown, can be vicious, they move fast and they don't like posing for photographs.

But, as a kid who was brought up in the UK, I have a different view of bears. The best bear of all time is obviously Winnie The Pooh, before Disney got its hands on him, as everyone knows. As a child I was a devoted follower of the intricate stories that unfolded in 100 acre wood, I felt Eeyore's sadness with him and I envied Christopher Robin's idyllic existence.

I never appreciated AA Milne's poetry that much. "Now we are six" and "When we were very young" were interesting but I'd scan through them desperately looking for a poem or two about Winnie the Pooh to no avail. These days I take some small pleasure in the tenuously linked fact that my covers band does "When we were young" the song by The Killers.

But the stories of Pooh and the other inhabitants of 100 acre wood continually fascinated me. I remember going to Winnie the Pooh pantomimes at Christmas, it seems as if I went for many years in a row but I guess it can only have been two or three at the maximum.

Then, along came that other great bear. No, not the gay one in the yellow chequered trousers, I'm talking about a proper bear here, one who continually got into scrapes, who had an air of pathos about him, who every boy wanted as a friend. Yes, all the way from darkest Peru; Paddington Bear.

I read all of his books and followed his every move. When they were small I tried to get my daughters interested in him, but there was no violence in the stories, there were no computerised graphics and there were no screaming guitars and they moved on quickly. It didn't matter too much, I still have the books somewhere and they're from that phase when I wanted to write my name in everything so each book has got my name in the front section written about 50 times.

When the stories were made into 5 or 10 minute TV programmes I loved them too. Like Fry and Laurie's "Jeeves and Wooster" they were one of the rare attempts where making books into TV actually did justice to the originals.

And one of Paddington's most important traits, one of his trademarks was his fondness for marmalade sandwiches. I strongly suspect that marmalade sales went up considerably after Paddington arrived from darkest Peru. Up until then marmalade was something that parents ate and we saw on the tables in hotels. All of a sudden there were kids like me trying the stuff and liking it.

Paddington lived on Marmalade sandwiches. He carried a little suitcase around with him with a marmalade sandwich in it in case of emergency. Marmalade to him was what honey was to Pooh.

You can imagine my dismay, my sense of disappointment and my feeling of betrayal when i was watching TV last night and the advert came on then. It featured Paddington, animated as well as he ever has been and looking as lost and as good as he always has. But, he was eating a sandwich with cheese and Marmite in it.

Seriously.

I kid you not.

He's sold out, he's advertising Marmite.

Personally I love the stuff. I think the whole way it has been marketed in recent years is brilliant, the whole "you either love it or hate it" thing has been executed superbly and has probably done wonders for its sales. I sometimes think that my dream woman would be one who tasted of Marmite and looked like Jennifer Aniston.

But that doesn't mean that Paddington should have sold his soul. First and foremost he's a marmalade loving bear.

First Winnie the Pooh became a Disney character and now Paddington has become a billboard. This has gone too far. What's next? Yogi advertising Jelly? Baloo extolling the virtues of Centreparcs?

Give us back our childhoods please.

Make my way back home and...

Learn to Cook.


So, what with all that is going on in my life at the moment, fate, circumstance, choice or any combination of all three or perhaps two, had decreed that there was a need for me to acquire new skills. One of the skills was that of cooking. I didn't want to be a fellow who lives on takeaways, microwave meals and has a permanent desire to be invited for dinner just to get a good meal.

If I were Italian I could have considered living on takeaway pizza, particularly as I have the epitome of great Italian cuisine at the end of my road; a Domino's Pizza place. But no, as far as food goes I'm a Sri Lankan through and through. And if I'm going to learn to cook then it may as well be Sri Lankan food that's going to be high on the list.

I wasn't a total imbecile as far as cooking goes, just about three quarters of an imbecile. I could whip up a decent meal as long as it was bacon and eggs, perhaps with toast, providing you didn't expect it to be served at one time. I can also make rice. So, many bases were covered.

But things are different now. The girls, unreasonable as they are, expect me to cook for them when they're here. Bolognese and chili con carne are now staples for me, as well as being basically the same thing but with or without kidney beans and cumin and some chili powder. I can knock up a decent mild chicken curry for them, as taught to me by my Mum and sausage beans and mash is something that always goes down well.

The portfolio needed to grow, it was up to me. So I decided to consult an expert; my Dad. If I wasn't typing this on my laptop I'd put a nifty litlle link here to lead you onto that post I did a short while ago in which I told you about his mutton curry and Yala and things. But, Safari, Blogger and me is a combination that doesn't get on all that well so you'll have to imagine, or search manually. I steamed over to the olds' place with an appointment. It was an appoinment to learn how to make parippu, my first essential and no mean feat.

The no mean feat is not because dhal, or parippu, is that hard to make. No, it's because my Dad is that hard to learn from. Like most of these good cooks he doesn't follow a recipe as such, he doesn't count tablespoons or measure quantities and weights. He just cooks, adding a bit of this, that much of that and some of this as he sees fit until he comes up with some sort of culinary masterpeice. It's a method that works for him and for his guests, but it's not a method that's conducive for learning.

I figured that the way to tackle his modus operandi was to translate his instructions into normal English. So, when he held his fingers up to tell me that this is how much of that to put in, I'd translate it into "add 1.5 teaspoons of chili powder after 7 minutes of simmering". You get my drift. I turned up with pen, paper and good mood, all the essentials.

He cooked, I watched, wrote down and asked questions. Half an hour later he had produced a dhal to die for and I hadn't the faintest idea how it had happened. However, I had faith that I had written down the method, the quantities and the finer details and I had confidence that I could go away and recreate it.

Some days later I felt that the time was right, my day had come and it was the time for me to step out into the big bad world.

I had spent most of my life preparing for this event. Like an athlete in training I felt ready and was at the peak of physical fitness. I was in the zone and chomping at the bit, I was up for the challenge and would never be more ready. I knew that it had to be donw and I knew there was no turning back. I had accepted the challenge, I had grabbed the baton and it was up to me to do the rest.

I opened the packet of lentils.....

to be continued...

Bored and missing Colombo

So I'm back, well sort of.

Hanging around at home with one eye that is currently about as effective as a Sri Lankan Minister's son in a "Let's win the ex girlfriend's heart back" competition.

The eye that was operated on is slowly healing, which means I'm peering through a misty cloud that's slowly clearing. I can't drive yet, I can't spend much time on the laptop or watching TV because the eye starts to cry, not because I'm sad or a girl or anything mind.

I'd love to be hanging around Colombo now, just absorbing its sights and sounds and wallowing in its atmosphere.

Then I was wondering if i might tell you all the intimate details about the laser surgery, about the burning smell, the clamp on the eye, the water being poured into it, all that sort of stuff. Mmmmm.... I wonder.

I guess I'll do some serious drum practice, there are songs to learn and solos to be played around with after all.

Maybe I'll think of some things to blog about, even interesting things, there's a radical thought..

Back In A Bit

On Tuesday I'm having laser surgery on my right eye again. I've ended up with a bit of presbyopia after having the first operation about a year ago so it's going to be re done. The right eye first, then perhaps the left eye if it's needed at a later date.

Then I'll be stuck in bed I guess, for a few days, perhaps longer. And I know that I'll be as bored as a cucumber and as frustrated as one of Darwin's housemates. Reading isn't a viable option, listening to music is hard without vision. I was amazed about this but it's true, unless I'm happy to lie there and trust the shuffle song thing on the iPod, which I found hard to do last time.

Even blogging is probably out as an option, again the eyesight thing kicks into play and makes it impractical. Drum practice is feasible, my electronic kit is permanently set up so I won't have to worry about that, but with dodgy vision and the tiredness it induces I'm not sure if I'll feel like it, even me.

I've got two songs to learn for the covers band; a town called Malice by the Jam and Times like these by the Foos. Both are songs I love, quirky, interesting and challenging in terms of recreating the feel.

So things will probably be bit quiet around the London, Lanka and drums neck of the woods. I shall return, hopefully with a right eye that Steve Austen would be proud of, maybe a bit of running in slow motion too.

See you in a bit.

Hot Cakes Are Selling Like iPods

Academic bro returned from the US the other day. One of the things he returned with was a new iPod for our Dad, his first one no less.

The chances are that you're Sri Lankan or you have knowledge of Sri Lanka and its people. Therefore you'll probably appreciate that, when a 70 something Sri Lankan Dad decides the time has come for him to get kitted out with an iPod, these things really have hit new and previously unheard of levels of popularity.

This is a Dad that struggles to operate the steering wheel on a car, often turning it in the opposite direction to the way the indicators are, well, indicating. Although I must admit that he makes what is often regarded as the best mutton curry and dhal in the world.

I remember being in a bungalow in Yala many years ago. As we tucked into our totally mouthwatering dinner of mutton curry, rice and more vegetable curries than I had thought possible I wallowed in the atmosphere. There was food, of the Sri Lankan variety, there had been wildlife and we had just had a close encounter with an lone elephant very close to the bungalow, there was that starry sky that contains not stars but the brightest of LEDs poking through a jet black sheet and there were friends of the closest kind.

If only I had a drum kit with me the setting would have been perfect, I feel sure that a small Bonhamesque solo would have added to the atmosphere too. But, as we tucked into the food and the arrack flowed, one of the friends remarked

"Wow, this mutton is superb no? The second best mutton curry I've ever had."

"What's the best one?" I asked him.

"That's Uncle N's (my Dad's)" he answered. Please note that he didn't actually say "(my Dad's)". they were my brackets that I put there in an attempt to show that he was referring to my Dad, who is Uncle N.

Needless to say I felt quite proud. It must have been about 15 years ago and it's stuck in my mind, which is handy really, otherwise writing about it would have been awkward.

So fair play to the old man. He makes a world beating mutton curry and a comparable dhal (parippu). I have a whole story about my attempts to learn his dhal recipe and method but I'll save that for a separate post.

But, prior to a couple of weeks ago, I would never had thought that he would take to iTunes seamlesly and easily. He is a chap who, on occasional forays into that whole world of sending emails to people, gets my Mum to do it for him. If you know my Mum you'll understand the relevance of that. For academic bro, bringing an iPod back here was the easy bit. Teaching Dad how to use iTunes, how to upload cds and synchronise was going to be a tiny bit harder than teaching a fish to speak Latin. And I'm not talking about an Italian fish either, more like a particularly chavvy one.

Music biz bro and I made ourselves unavailable at the merest mention of showing Dad how to use the hardware and software. I would have happily done most other things but a chap has limits. So academic bro was left with the task and we kept quiet, waiting for the backdraft and the fallout.

A few days later I heard a rumour. It was one of those ones that people don't pay any attention to at first, like that one about Galle Face Green being closed for refurbishment. But the rumour persisted, the whispers continued and it got to a stage where they could be ignored no longer, investigation was required.

Yes, the rumour that had hit the streets was that Dad had been given instruction on his new iPod, on iTunes and on the concept of uploading his cds to iTunes and his iPod and it had all happened seamlessly and painlessly. He was reported to be strolling around the house, iPod strapped into place and merrily listening to his cds without a care in the world. What's more was that, in the whole uploading process, there had been no computer or electrical disasters either in his house or in the immediate vicinity.

I called him, did a bit of smalltalk about the weather, grandchildren, work and stuff then he got on to the subject of his new toy. He told me with some pride of how he has learnt how to use it, how to use iTunes and how to synchronise it and do everything. I was still sceptical so checked with Tarquin, academic bro.

He confirmed it. He said that Dad had understood all, that he hadn't been calling him every half hour to ask those frustrating questions that parents ask us about computers, that all was looking good. Then, at the weekend I went there and saw and tried the little electronic marvel for myself. Sure enough the music was on it and all was working well, Dad even knew how to use it.

Bugger me.

They may be able to redefine portable music, they may be able to make millions of people buy their invention and they can make people like me actually have feelings for a laptop.

But they've come up with the iPod and iTunes and my Dad can use them.

Genius.

Half Cut and Preshly Pucked

I've found and settled on a new hairdresser. Things with Holly just didn't work out. It wasn't her fault, it was me. I wasn't ready for that type of commitment, often the conversation didn't flow and looks only last up to a certain point. The blonde hair, the skimpy clothes, the breasts and the fake tan just weren't attractive. Even after I stopped wearing them she still didn't like me.

I moved on, Holly and I just drifted and there were no tears and no big upsets.

And I found a new place to rest my weary head. It's one of the mega super trendy ones in Kingston and frankly I enjoy the pampering and luxury, even thought it costs me about the same as it would cost to buy one of the smaller BMWs, probably without an upgraded sound system though.

On Saturday morning I was sitting in there at the designated time. My hair had been washed, my head had had the massage thing where they make you think that you'd happily pay the money just for that without a haircut at all, all was good and Sharon, my new best friend, was working her way through the "not very big hair" I have.

It's about the fourth or fifth time I've been "done" by Sharon. She's nice, she has a 1 year old daughter and we talk about kids, life, music and the world in general. I don't think she's going to beat Darwin in the race to gain a PhD but she's still nice. She explains stuff about my hair to me and remembers things I've told her before. There's nothing worse than having the same conversation that you had last time because the hairdresser never listened to a word you said.

Then, just at about the halfway point of my haircut, we heard a loud clanging sound, rather like a fire bell.

It was a fire bell.

Calmness prevailed, this was hardly going to be a major disaster, it was a shopping centre in Kingston and we were about 10 yards from the front door. But, we had to use it. Company policy and heath and safety rules were in attendance and we, which means me, Sharon and about 10 other customers along with their respective highly trendy hairdressers, all had to leave the place and assemble on the other side of the road in an orderly fashion. Each shop in the Bentall centre had faced the same scenario and each place had a specific part of the pavement on which to stand. It was very British, very efficient and highly organised. Clearly it must have been planned by East Europeans.

You know when you look out of a window and see blue sky, a touch of sun and some people in summery clothes? Well do you do the same thing as I do? Do you assume it's warm, that you don't need a jacket and that you're as oblivious to the cold as the average mad singer whose name is Bjork?

I did. I stood out there with wet hair, my jacket locked in the cupboard in the shop, feeling like a twat. Of course, it turned out that it wasn't just a fire drill either. So we had to wait for the Fire Brigade to arrive and declare everything safe. This took about 6 weeks. All the other customers were led to the shop's other branch on the other side of Kingston, but I, the idiot who had left his jacket inside, where no one was allowed to go until all was declared safe, couldn't go anywhere, because in my jacket was my wallet, my keys and more or less my whole life.

I spent a slightly enjoyable hour there. There was banter between the hairdressers and the customers, there was amusement at the old ugly ladies from the tanning centre opposite, all of whom had to stand in the street half tanned and wrapped in towels. There was laughter at the people from the gym, many who were straight out of the pool or shower, or perhaps just wet. They were all laughing at each other, they laughed at me, with my half cut hair. I laughed at them, the fat ugly bastards with their fake tans. It was all very jovial.

We were finally allowed back in. Sharon finished what she had started. We decided that it would be an idea for her to cut the sides of my hair shorter than she has done before but to still leave the hair there quite choppy and messy. It seems to work, you'll be pleased to know. Off I strolled, to collect the girls and go to their Grandparents' for lunch and family stuff. All was pleasant and happy.

On Sunday I met up with a good friend who I haven't seen for a while. She had a certain look of radiance about her, that glow, the one that all women recognise in each other but men just vaguely pick up, without being able to define.

As soon as I saw her I said

"Bloody hell, you look great"

She said, with what I realised immediately afterwards, was a glow of satisfaction

"Ah yes, that's because I'm freshly fu....ed."

It was a phrase I hadn't heard before. I like it. It's crude but somehow I find it very appropriate and descriptive.

I think I'll try to use it in my everyday conversation.

Sigiriya or Dambulla?

I was hanging around on Sunday night, comtemplating going to a gig, comtemplating life in general and feeling quite pleased with myself for a few things.

The first was the new drum fill I had just written, my New Year's resolution continues to work and my musical vocabulary continues to grow, with some hiccups but a general upwards trend. For the musical amongst you the fill sounds like this:

da ga da da da sss da ga da do go do blap.

The "blap" falls on the four of a four beat fill and, well the rest is pretty obvious really.

But, after writing it down in proper musical notation, which helps me learn and remember these things, I settled down to a spot of dinner and perused the 387 TV channels I have access to for something vaguely interesting to watch. Of course this vast array of channels doesn't broadcast anything that I find interesting, just stuff that other people find interesting, people who have never, ever watched TV before and therefore don't realise that everything is a repeat.

I finally, only because it was the least crap thing I could find, settled on a programme called "Britain's Favourite View". I thought the title was promising and, before I pressed the information button to find out more, had expected to see that it would be a beautifully filmed programme showing some of the stunning landscapes and scenery that we have here in Blighty.

It so nearly was, yet it was also the epitome of chav TV.

It was a programme, which turned out to be the "final", in which members of the public had to ring in and vote for the view that they considered as their favourite. There were about 5 such views in this final and it became obvious to me that in this, as in the previous "rounds" various celebrities had presented their favourite view. They had each made a short film about their chosen view, they had presented the film and talked about the view and been interviewed by Trevor Mcdonald about it. Some views had been eliminated in previous rounds, I'm unsure if they had to sing a song or perhaps the other views had to vote in a clincher of some sort.

I can't remember the exact locations but there were ones like a specific place in the Lake District, a part of Northern Ireland incorporating the Mountains of Mourne, a castle somewhere on the North East coast of England and so on.

Each place was filmed beautifully, each was incredibly picturesque and it looked as if each celebrity was passionate about their place, as if celebrities really had chosen their view, not been allocated it, although I can't be sure.

But I hate this whole reality TV business, I really do. This was, for me, just a fundamentally inappropriate way to portray the intense beauty and often unappreciated splendour of the UK. It's bad enough when poor quality people vote for the person that's going to be number one in the charts for the next five years, but at least there's a full circle kind of thing going on there in that they're the idiots who are going to buy the crap music anyway.

For me, landscapes and scenery are not the things that should be voted for, or against. I have a great dislike for the way that we so often send out a message that everything has to be a competition, with winners and losers. Why can't people appreciate many scenes and views without having to decide on a winner or a loser? Why can't we teach our kids to think abundantly, not scarcely?

Then again, the result of this programme would surely have been that more people would have visited all the featured attractions, which I assume is good and wanted. More members of the public would have become aware of their existence, as was the case with me. One of the many things I'd like to do is to have a much better knowledge of the UK, to see some more of the country and landscape I live in, and programmes like this do inspire me to do more and see more and so broaden my knowledge. I just don't want to vote on it.

What do you think, Sigiriya or Dambulla? The Lake District or The River Thames?

Do you have to choose?

Serendipity and Great Sex

My name is Rhythmic, I am something years old. I like Sri Lanka. I like it because of scenes like this. I like it for many other reasons too.





That's the introduction bit over.

If you're a regular you'll probably be aware that I was in the motherland a couple of weeks ago. I've bombarded you with photographs, stories and deeply meaningful intelligent analyses of the whole Sri Lankan political situation.

Here's another of the stories, except it's more of a thing really, just a narrative.

One of the things I did there was to travel down south for a few days' of pure relaxation and rest. Only when the opportunity came up I realised that it was such a long time since I had been in Sri Lanka and travelled out of Colombo. I have come there for so many short trips in the last couple of years that I just haven't had the luxury of a few weeks there and the time to get out of town.

So, after the necessaries had been organised and the car had failed to turn up at the allotted time and a different one had been organised, normal stuff for Sri Lanka, I set off.

I don't know if you people who live in Sri Lanka have the same feelings as I do about this but, one of the things I love is to just travel around Sri Lanka and look out of the window. Any journey there has an abundance of interesting features and sights for me, from the vegetation to the cars to the people and the landscape. Most journeys conjure up all manner of emotions for me. There are childhood memories that crop up at the most innocuous times, there are memories of the girls when they were younger, of my parents and my brothers in those days when we'd go on big family holidays together.

There are some less happy times to be remembered too, like driving back to Colombo from Kandy in July '83, probably the single most fearful time of my life.

The journey down south is one of those specials for me too. The trip from the centre of Colombo to Mount Lavinia is always a bit of a chore, the traffic to be negotiated at almost any time of the day is just a pain and getting to the point of the Mount Hotel always seems like a major milestone for me. But after Mount the noise and the dirt, the fumes and the smells start to dissipate as the metropolis fades and gets left behind, the landscape gradually changes into the timeless Sri Lanka of travel brochures and dreams.

This was only the second time I've travelled down south since the tsunami and I was still left gasping open mouthed at some of the devastation and the sheer power of water. I know much has been fixed, cleared and tidied, but there's still so many signs of the disaster and they'll break anyone's heart a little bit.

I felt as if I was experiencing a bit of mental turmoil though, to see some of this damage yet to also enjoy the unparalleled beauty felt like I was being disloyal to the people that lost so much. Would those who lost homes, families, lives and livelihoods ever look at the landscape and feel the beauty or would they hate it for the sadness it caused? It just doesn't seem fair that such a stunning visual feast can also be responsible for causing so much tragedy, but that's the natural world I guess.

Yet I continued to marvel at the sights as they revealed themselves to me. I watched as the ocean changed colour, from the greyish non descript colour that it appears in Colombo, the one I can't describe, to the blue gently lapping waves with the palm trees in the background with their colourful simplicity. I saw how the building and office blocks gave way to simple dwellings and 5 star hotels. The brisk manner of Colombo people, the hurriedness of their walks was replaced by people who looked more relaxed, who carried themselves with an air of calmness.

Grey became green or blue, it was as if a polarising filter had been stuck in my eyes and everything looked more colourful and bright. Even now, as I'm writing this I can feel the sensations I experienced, all my senses were working overtime, as those XTC chaps once said.

I could taste the sea, I could see the beauty and smell the saltiness and freshness. I could hear the waves and I felt an overwhelming sense of tranquility. I felt passion for Sri Lanka, for its landscape and its beauty, for the tranquility of the countryside and also for the excitement of Colombo.

Once I got to the hotel there were plenty more treats in store, but that's for another day and another post.

The sex bit?

Oh yes. Well I was reading a thing about sex the other day and it said that great sex is not just about getting to the point of an orgasm, more that it's about how you enjoy getting there, the beauty and joy of the journey itself, rather than just the fun of the destination.

And that's one of the things about Sri Lanka for me, the journeys can be as good as the destination.

It's a Drummer's Life (Shakin' that Arse - Pt 2)

After the fun of Saturday Mimosa had another gig to play on the following day. It was a wedding reception, our first such gig and we all felt a little bit apprehensive. It's one thing to play in dodgy clubs and festivals but a wedding reception is different; we had to be at our best and we had to do all we could do make it enjoyable for the audience.

We had been chosen by the bride and groom after they had seen us play at a club some months ago. It was quite an honour to hear that they had listened to about 10 bands before they heard us and decided immediately that we were the correct one for the job. We'd been given a schedule for the evening and knew we had to abide by it, turning up late and hungover for a gig at a smelly club with no punters is all well and good and par for the course for the average musician, but for someone's wedding it wasn't a viable option.

So we were at the venue at 4PM as instructed so that we could set up and sound check by 5.30, when the happy couple would arrive. At 5 o'clock we were pleased with our progress. Everything was set up, there was problem with a couple of the monitors but it wasn't a big one, and we were ready to soundcheck and run through a couple of songs to warm up.

At 5.01 I, as well as several other members of that great funky band I'm in, had a heart attack. The bride and groom had arrived at the venue, half an hour early. What to do? We were faced with two choices, or three if you include the one about packing up quickly and doing a runner; we could either stay quietly in the background and wait until 8.30 to start our set, risking the possibility of bad sound and its consequences. Bear in mind we are an 8 piece band so there's a few instruments to be balanced to ensure we do sound ok. Or we could go ahead and soundcheck, albeit briefly, in front of the newly weds and the few guests who had arrivied with them.

We went for the last option. We all felt very frustrated that we might piss off the couple, our employers, but we felt that we had stuck to the timetble they had supplied and a soundcheck was essential for us to sound good, as well as the fact that the couple had arrived early. Of course, the rough game plan we had beforehand; to run through some of the songs in their entirety, the ones we hadn't practiced for a while, became a total non starter and we did our soundcheck as quickly and as professionally as we could. Then, off we went, to wait around for the 3 1/2 hours until we were required to play.

At 8.30 we took to our stage. We were to do 2 sets, both of about 45 minutes, and we planned on a slightly more mellow first set and a kicking dancing type of second set. As we started a few people began to dance. This was nice and positive and more people began to join them and boogie away. I felt a great sense of confidence and assurance in our playing. Perhaps this was to do with the fact we had gigged the previous day, perhaps it was influenced by our increasing maturity as a band, perhaps it was because of all 3, perhaps my counting isn't that good after all.

I don't know. But we finished the set and went to our little room to wait for the resuming of festivities. By 10 PM we knew that the guests would be very drunk, the atmosphere would be more relaxed and the music would be more lively.

You know, I noticed something about wedding guests, women specifically. It's the fact that many ropey looking women get dolled up for a wedding and end up looking quite nice as wedding guests. It's like a day at the races, they put on a glamorous dress, some make up and a push up bra and they become a different person. And often, this different person wants to flirt with the chaps in the band, occasionally even with the drummer. This whole "drummers being sexy" thing is a bit of a revelation to me and I'd be grateful if T, or someone who subscribes to the idea could attempt to explain it to me.

We're clearly different to the other musicians. A bit like a goalkeeper in that we're part of a team but we play a very individual role within the team. But why do some women go for drummers? Is it the physical thing, in that they know we're all capable of rhythmic movements all night long? Is it the fact that we sweat and exert ourselves for a long time for pleasure? Is it that fact that we're experts in controlling the movements of our body, from our fingers to our muscular legs? Or maybe it's the way that we're pretty damn good at making one part of our body do one thing while another part does a totally different thing?

I really don't know, but I can't see why any of these qualities would be in the least bit attractive to some middle aged woman, dressed up to the nines and out to have a good time. These things mystify me.

But our second set really kicked some arse. We were in fine form and so was the crowd. Sometimes it's bad to analyse these things too much, sometimes analysis tears them apart. But this was just fun, pure and simple. We had virtually the whole throng up and dancing for about an hour solidly. Debby, our singer, was in fine form, the band was as slick as we have ever been and I know I played solidly. We made some mistakes but we're good enough to deal with them without a train crash.

We all enjoyed ourselves, something that I've come to learn is a huge factor in how much the audience enjoys the band, if the band is smiling and laughing and looks like it's fun there's an infectious enthusiasm about it. There were people dancing as if dancing is going out of fashion. There were grandparents and grandchildren dancing together and the generation in between was too.

I got a big thrill as I looked up at one point and saw a club full of moving bodies and thought that it was my groove that they were moving to, it was me who was giving them the rhythm and the feel to dance to. Of course I didn't want to dwell on it for too long or I would have missed a beat or shat my pants or something. But, as I've said before, there's not much better feeling than knowing it's us that were making the people dance, our songs, our music and our playing.

At the end of the set the room emptied quicker than you could say "you're not allowed to smoke in here now so you have to go outside for a fag" and we were left to take our stuff down, the drummer's bane. We did that and melted into the night. There were some thank yous, some women to be fought off, or not, as the case may be and there was the routine of work the next morning.

I had a band practice with the covers band the following day too, followed by another Mimosa practice the next evening. I love it though.

The whole gigging for little money, setting up and lugging around a drum kit, getting knackered while playing and having to learn new songs.

I wouldn't swap it for the world.

There are two types of people...

That's got to be one of the most overused cliches ever. Although I wonder what on Earth an underused cliche would be. An oxymoron I guess, like "Sri Lankan ceasefire agreement", "Country music" or "funky white bloke". Some things just don't exist.

Recently I realised that many people make that statement, the one that goes..

"There are two types of people.."

They follow the words with a generalisation on how the Human race can be split into those that do one thing and those that don't, invariably with some sort of message about which type is the "best" one to be.

There are:

Those who do the work and those who take the credit

Those who walk into a room and say "Ah here I am" and those who say "Ah there you are"

Those who are creative thinkers and those who are critical thinkers

Those who say the glass is half full and those who say it is half empty

My personal favourite is that there are actually 10 types of people in the world; those who understand binary and those who don't.

But actually I don't think all the people in this big wide world can be classified into two types.

I firmly believe that there are two types of people in the world; those who believe there are two types of people and those who don't.

What type are you?

My How they've Grown!

The eleven year old, the scary one, the one who likes My Chemical Romance and other EMO ish things and who can out argue me without breaking into the mildest of sweats had her first day at secondary school the other day.

I'll tell you about it, read into it what you will, but it's a bit about my life.

I was asked to drop her for various reasons and I duly obliged. I rolled up at their place at the designated time and found her and her elder sister pretending to get ready. The eldest, although at the same school, didn't start until later so was going to make her own way in with a friend. We had to be at the school by 8.30 so had to leave by around 8.15.

In all her life I've never seen her looking as smart and presentable as she did. She's one of these kids who has a propensity to scruffiness and dirt. Shoes on her get scuffed, clothes get dirty and hair gets messed up and ruffled, all in less time than it takes for one of those East European windscreen washer women to draw a washing up liquid heart on a windscreen and then smile at you through the gap in their teeth.

Her smartness was something I knew would be short lived, but it was a big and new experience. The shoes were gleaming, the hair was neat and tidy and the clothes were ironed and clean. She's one of those eleven year olds with absolute confidence, with ne'er the slightest hint of nerves or ansgt about her person, and this first day at secondary school was just another thing to take in her stride. If it had been me or her sister we would have been ready around four months beforehand, we would have left about three months before we needed to and our nerves would have been torn to shreds, if that's what happens to nerves.

I had to put up with some shouting and arguing as I attempted to persuade her that it was time to leave, but we finally managed it and set off in the car, with that "Teenagers scare the living shit out of me" song blaring out as had been requested by the child thing. It seemed appropriate.

As we drove near to the school she spotted a good friend, E, strolling along with her Mum. There was some frantic waving and shouting and we continued towards the school, parked up and got out of the car.

"Just leave me here Dad, I'll be fine" she kind of teenagerley whined at me, with that tone that makes you think girls' voices can break too.

"No, it's ok I'll take you across the road and make sure you're all sorted" I replied.

"I'll be fine"

"But I'd like to" I fired back, with as much force as I dared.

"Ok" she retorted. It amazes me how a person can get across so much attitude in just two letters, but she managed it.

We got out and looked in all those directions that are required prior to crossing a road. You Sri Lankans may be lost at this point, but here in England it's common practice for pedestrians to look before they walk across a busy road. Honestly, it's true. I asked her to hold my hand, a bold and stupid move.

"It's ok Dad, I'm eleven."

"I know you are but hold my hand"

"I don't have to, I know how to cross a road"

I let her do it, this letting go of kids thing can be hard sometimes but it's also got to be done. When we got to the other side we saw E, her friend, strolling along the pavement with no sign of her Mother. Clearly she had told the Mother to make herself scarce and was happy about it. They grinned, greeted each other and then my youngest turned to me with those warm words.

"Bye Dad"

"Ah right, bye then" I said, with an air of nonchalence. I leant down to give her a kiss, she pretended not to see, but I managed to sneak one before I could shatter all her credibility. Then I left her to talk with E, they reminded me of Rizzo's gang of girls in "Grease". I jumped in my car, pulled out and drove off. As I went past the school gate the two of them were there, just standing and talking and laughing. Had I not known I would never have guessed it was their first day at the school.

Off I went to work, feeling a tad sad but mostly happy. Sad that she'll be sixteen when she leaves the school, unless she gets expelled for something unsurprising, but happy that she'll always be my daughter, no matter what.

Shakin' that Arse

I'm not very clued up about the demographics of my readership, I'm not sure if I have a readership as such or if it's a few regulars and a smattering of passers by. But, if you're one of the unknown, or known, regulars, then you'll undoubtedly know that music is my big, big passion, specifically drumming.

So a weekend in which I have two gigs is always going to be a major one and the last was no exception. Both gigs were with Mimosa, the funksters, and they couldn't have been more different. On Saturday it was a gig at a VW festival, one of those massive affairs with camper vans, Beetles and surfer dudes all over the place, then on Sunday it was a wedding reception, one of those ones with a bride, a groom and guests and everything.

The VW thing was at Santa Pod raceway, a place that was new to me, but well known to everyone else in the Western world and also to the Satellite Navigation on my Ultimate Driving Machine, not that any particular raceway is well known to me but you know what I mean.

After a pleasant two hour journey in a car full of drums I arrived there. It's the third time I've played at one of these VW festivals, this was easily the biggest and grandest of them but they've all shared an air of friendliness and cameraderie. The people are all happy and jovial and the atmosphere is a smiley one, rather like one of Java's emails.

As I drove into the place there were VWs of all shapes and sizes dotted about, it was a test of skill and patience to drive through a space like this and have to dodge the hippies and surfer dudes, it's always tempting to maim or kill just one or two, surely they wouldn't be missed, I always think. But then Quiksilver and Converse's sales would probably suffer badly and I'd get caught, not to mention the negative effect on the chances of us getting the gig next year. I did the right thing and drove in nice and peacefully, much like a Sri Lankan Tri Shaw driver.

The stage, once located, was about the size of a small independent state, like Liechtenstein or India. It felt more bouncy though and it had more lighting, possibly with a few less sound engineers. There were supposed to be eight bands playing, going on until about midnight, and we were first on the bill. So, our potential audience was may thousands of people, but we had the worst slot of the day, we thought.

As we all met up we were told that one band had cancelled and therefore we were expected to go on at twelve rather than one. This was good, we would get done and go off earlier, but life with musicians is never that easy and it meant trying to contact the others and to get them to arrive sooner, never a doddle and that's why guitarists don't generally get involved in time keeping issues.

We set up, did a brief soundcheck and then went for it. The full force of Mimosa kicked in and I felt my usual pride in being a part of it. There was a handful of people, perhaps thirty or forty, and there was more wind going around the stage than there is in my Mum and Dad's bathroom after me and my brothers have had a night on the town. Music and lyrics were being swept off the stage and, at one point, there was an even more than usually confused brass section as their chords got blown to oblivion.

The set was a short one at forty minutes. We had to make some changes and the running order was mostly decided as we played. This was a bit of a test for us but also one which made me feel quite satisfied. It's good to know that we can fly by the seat of our musical pants and I was happy that I can play any one of our songs at a moment's notice without the feeling of panic, along the lines of "fuck, how does that one go again?", as I used to.

Gigs like this, with a small audience, invariably end up with all of us having a laugh and being very relaxed. There was some messing about, I decided to play a bit of an extended solo during Watermelon Man, much to the dismay of the bassist and percussionist, who had both expected to have their own solo.

And even thought there wasn't much of a crowd I had a massive feeling of joy and a sense of awe at the power of music. There was one point when I looked up from my kit and noticed that almost all of the crowd were dancing. Some of it was particularly crappy dancing but it was still happening. People were moving to the music, some were swaying, some were tapping their feet and others were giving it the full "Dad at a wedding" thing. It was us, it was our music, songs and grooves that we had written, practiced and perfected (or not perfected) over the last couple of years that was making these people smile and move and tap their feet.

It's one thing to play a cover, a song that everyone already knows from hearing it on the radio every three minutes, and get people moving. But, to play your own stuff and get some arses moving is, and I apologise for my language here, just fucking marvellous.

We finished and we left. The next day (Sunday) was the wedding reception gig which I'll definitely do a separate post on. I did discover that we had been the most well received band from the VW festival.

Which was nice.

A Bunch of Fives

All these posts and games of blogospheric tag have got me thinking about lists and top 5s. I won't tag anyone with this but feel free to do your own ones if you desire, and if you have a blog. You can of course do lists of some top 5 thing even if you don't have a blog, but it will just be a list that probably won't get seen by many people. Unless you're a journalist or something like that.

So, some random ponderings:

My top 5 Sri Lankan foods:

1. String hoppers



2. Rambutans (I know they're not strictly Sri Lankan but I'll always think of them as Sri Lankan)



3. Lamprais



4. Parippu



5. Proper Muslim Buriyani.
   

My top 5 current gadgets:

1. My MacBook



2. This new Samsung mobile phone I've got. It's nothing special, just a standard type of thing but it's got a sexy tactile feel to it. A sort of rubberised silky plastic. I want to stroke it.



3. The very trendy and expensive new kitchen timer I bought. It looks a bit like a seventies car speedometer and cost about 4 times the price of a "normal" kitchen timer. It was a pure impulse buy, I don't really need a kitchen timer anyway.



4. This new ab machine thing. There I was, watching late night cable TV as we all pretend we don't do. On came an "infommercial" for the lastest abs trainer. It's so much better than the previous ones, which were all crap. It's revolutionary because it's so good for your back and gyms across the US are buying these in droves. Did I fall for this rubbish? Was I taken in and did I go online and order one immediately? Of course I did, of course I was and yes. I now own a blow up bean thing that you sit on and rock. It will make me have the abs of an average American within about 3 days.



5. My Canon EOS 400D SLR. It makes taking photos a pleasurable experience in itself. A right little masterpiece of design. Everything feels very intuitive about it and my hands want to hold it.

5 things I've learnt recently:

1. There is such a thing as too much planning, the whole "seat of your pants" thing can be fun.



2. Some fear is good. It's healthy and positive and is what stops us from doing stupid things.



3. Many women find drummers sexy.



4. Attitudes are infectious. Some people are drainers of energy and others are big sources of positive energy. I know which type I want to be.



5. Gut feeling, instinct, whatever you call it, is a powerful force but often hard to acknowledge. Once you do figure out how to latch on to your gut feelings many great things can happen.