Tomorrow Night's Set

Goes like this,

1. Golden Touch
2. Take me out
3. Teenage kicks
4. Don't believe a word
5. Pump it up
6. Sunflower
7. Are you gonn go my way
8. Stay with me
9. Suffragette city
10. Molly's Chambers
11. Rebel Yell

1. Country House
2. Town called Malice
3. Girls and Boys
4. Always where I need to be
5. When you were young
6. Mr Brightside
7. Uprising
8. Common People
9. Poker Face
10. Dakota
11. Sex on Fire
12. Chelsea
13. I predict a riot
14. She sells sanctuary

Encore - Superstition, Play that funky music, Brown Sugar.

You'll have noticed a few new ones in there. Poker Face is going down well every time, it's our version of the You Me at Six version, Pseudorandom will probably know it. We'll be debuting Girls and Boys which I'm rather excited about and Uprising is a kickarse song that's even more kickarse to play.

It's the first time out too for Stay with me, I hope that will be fun.

All in all a good time should be had by all.

Cool Dad!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

When all was done I sent my reply to A:

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

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

"Oh cool, you mean next Friday?"

"Yes, next Friday" said I

The reply came.

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

Oh bollocks, I thought.

So close yet so far.

Some Friday Thoughts

How is it that we managed to put a man on the moon before figuring out that it would be a good idea to put wheels on luggage?

Why does a round pizza come in a square box?

Why do people pay to go up tall buildings then pay money to look through binoculars to see things on the ground?

Happy weekending all.

RD

How To Win An Argument With A Sri Lankan Mother

I'm forty four these days, depending on exactly when you're reading this. I feel that I've learned some things over the years and, prompted by a comment from Magerata, I've decided I should share my extensive list of foolproof methods of winning an argument with a Sri Lankan Mother.

Here you are:

Malu, Malu. Huge Big Bastards.

Right outside my living room window is a marina of sorts, I guess a mini marina. Though there are no minis in it, just boats. Innit.

It's at right angles to the river Thames, with a little water channel thing with a bridge that goes up and down to let the bigger boats in and out. Please accept my apologies if my choice of advanced nautical and marine terms has left you lagging behind.

One of my main objectives when hunting for a place was to find somewhere that I'd be happy to hang around on my own in. Us divorced types do spend a fair percentage of our time alone so this was important.

RD Towers has been good in this respect and I spend many evenings and weekends happily gazing out of the window at boats, people strolling on the towpath and all manner of riverlife. At other times I practice drumming and take casual breaks and look out of the window at goings on. It's all rather enjoyable.

There are geese, swans, ducks and all manner of other creatures. and there's nesting, swimming, catching food and all sorts of interesting sights to see.

I'm no Amila Salgado though, so don't have the faintest clue what the things are. I can just about taste the difference between duck and goose but spotting it with my eyes is way beyond me. I've been told that the marina, the bit outside my window, is only about three feet deep. It matters little to me, my ability to swim is about as bad in three feet of water as in thirty feet of the stuff. Truth be told, it's not that I'm scared of swimming, it's more that I'm scared of drowning.

On Sunday morning, on what was a boiling hot, let's all stroll by the river day, I woke up, something I do most days. I did some ablutions, then had a poo and stuff as well, and wandered into the sitting room to grab a bit of brekky and, well, sort of do nothing. I opened the windows and looked out at the boats and the water.

As I peered at the water I was astounded to see movement, huge big movement. There were about four or five big black fish swimming around casually, the first time I've ever seen fish in there. I watched them for a while as they did their thing. Their thing consisted mostly of swimming around near the surface, sticking their mouths out of the water at fairly frequent intervals and making an "O" shape. They all looked to be quite good at their thing.

After around ten minutes they seemed to disappear and I assumed they'd exited out into the river. I didn't think too much of it, merely wondering if these things are lurking there all the time and this just happened to be the first time I'd noticed them. I got on with my day.

My 'rents popped round later on and, in conversation, I told my Dad about the fish whilst simultaneously having an argument with my Mum, who was sitting next to him. Anyone who thinks men can't multi task would have been gobsmacked with my ability. I know I was. I even managed to win the argument, not that anyone ever wins an argument with a Sri Lankan mother.

My Dad laughed at me when I told him about the fish, joking that I was like one of those fisherman telling their mate about the one that got away. He evidently thought I was exaggerating and I began to think that I might have been. Perhaps I'd dreamt it or something. I left the matter, chucking it firmly to the back of my mind. Things are quite crowded there at the back of my mind but I was able to squeeze it in, just behind the idea about building an underground system in Colombo and next to that one about discovering Jennifer Aniston living in the flat above me.

Life went on and on Monday I was back at work. I wasn't even thinking about fish, more about meat to be honest. It was another scorcher of a day and I had to pop home for some reason at about lunchtime. I walked into the apartment, paid a cursory glance at the view out of the window and the marina was full, I mean really full, of these big fish.

It was the most amazing sight, like the gathering at Minneriya but the vegetarian version, featuring fish. The marina was teeming with them, too many to count. It looked like a regular garden fish pond with regular size fish that had been put in the teleporter on the USS Enterprise. But there had been a problem and the pond and fish had arrived at the destination about ten times bigger than they should have been.

The fish were all at least a foot in length but the biggest ones were up to about three feet long. I took the pictures to show you, so you wouldn't be like my Dad and accuse me of exaggerating. I saw a bloke who had been walking past and seen them and was ringing friends to tell them about these things. Clearly it was an unusual sight and I could hear him talking in fishermen's terms about thirty pounders and "I wish you could see them", that sort of thing.

I also heard him counting aloud to his mate on the phone as he tried to work out how many there were. He got to twenty four and then gave up. There is a slim chance that it was because he was bad at counting (he looked the type) but in reality it was simply because there were too many.

A few minutes later two fishermen turned up, looking as though they'd been tipped off by someone. They set up, one chap with a rod or line and the other ready with a huge big sturdy looking net to help when the first fellow got a bite. I couldn't hang around for long enough to see if they caught anything.

I remain stunned by the fish. They weren't there when I got home on Monday night and weren't there this morning but I hope they'll return, perhaps aware of their new found fame among the Lankanosphere.

Anyone know what they are though?

Identity, Confusion, Abundance And Germans

It's probable, according to the extensive readership research we conduct here at LLD at regular intervals, that you're 98 years old, prone to wearing checked trousers on Tuesdays and dodgy hand made leather slippers that you're proud of all the time.

You eat rice about 5 times a week and have slept with 2.8 women in your lifetime. You've also had 1.3 "experiences" of a sexual nature with men, but that was when you were at school and everyone was doing it anyhow so it doesn't count.

Oh, as for the 2.8 women, well one of them was a servant when you were 15, one you married and the 0.8 was from that night you got so pissed that you've never been sure what exactly happened.

And, as a regular reader, you know enough about me to know that I have some strangely abundant views on identity, specifically on my own identity.

When I was younger I had a scarce approach to identity, thinking that I was both British and Sri Lankan but that the sum of my identity could only add up to 100%. I think many people hold similar views now. The result, among chaps with mixed identity, is that things become a situation of either / or, of being more of one and less of the other.

The scarcity approach is centred around the idea that one's identity is held within a container, one of fixed size. It can only hold so much identity, but can have as many mixtures of identity as you can think of, just a finite quantity.

The thing is, the more of one you are, by definition (albeit my definition), the less of the others you are. I spent probably the first thirty or more years of my life with this mindset. I knew my make up was British and Sri Lankan but would always struggle to balance the two. As I connected more and more with Sri Lanka I felt as though I was betraying my country of birth and physical home and vice versa.

I suppose that would all have been well and good were I happy about things, but I wasn't. Then I read a wise man's academic thesis on identity, specifically on being Sri Lankan, and I had a paradigm shift. The conclusion in this thesis was that identity is personal, that it's actually defined only by what is within the person's mind. It's not actually about passports, physical geography, heritage and whether you wear a sarong or not. It's about what each chaps feels and believes.

I took this and ran with it, applying it to my own circumstances.

"It's about what you feel, what you believe".

Hmmm.... I thought.

So there are, in my mind, some prerequisites, some rough rules. Rules like the fact that I probably couldn't decide to be a Belgian. Don't get me wrong, I like a good episode of Poirot and a plate of mussels as much as the next man, but even by the loosest criteria I don't have much to connect me with our Belgian neighbours, not even a pointy moustache. On top of that I think Belgian chocolate is nice but overrated, give me a good slab of Cadbury's Dairy Milk any day.

I decided that life, in as far as identity was concerned, would work better for me if I adopted what I call an abundance mentality towards it. Which is to say that, instead of my identity container being of a fixed size and only holding 100%, I'd picture it as something that could expand to whatever size I wanted.

The result was that I felt content and peaceful to take any view on my own identity. I could be 100% British as well as 100% Lankan. The truth is that I feel as if I'm about 90% British and about 90% per cent Sri Lankan. That is today and things fluctuate on a day to day basis, the main point is that I'm at ease when I adopt this mindset.

The girls, A and K, have three mixtures in their pot. Their mother is Polish British, then they have me and the fact that they've been born and brought up here in the UK. I feel very proud that they've grown up with the attitude that they're Polish, British and Sri Lankan.

Those are my views on identity then, formulated and evolved over the last forty four years. They're views that I'm actually rather keen on, but I figure that it's up to the individual to decide upon.

Sometimes I have a little bit of internal conflict. Cricket is never a problem, I always support Sri Lanka. Football is a hypothetical problem. I've always supported England and there's never been an England v Sri Lanka match. If there was I'd have to cheer on Lanka, just because they'd be such underdogs, but it would be a bit of a wrench.

When I hear a lot of the political views that are quite anti the UK I sometimes struggle, feeling a bit loyal to the country but also trying my best to filter out the good information from the bad and formulating decent opinions of my own.

If Sri Lanka were a footballing nation and were in this World Cup I'd definitely sport a St George's flag as well as a Lankan flag on my car. One of my ongoing projects is to find a tattoo design that will be able to combine my feelings for Sri Lanka with those for Britain and also my passion for drumming. The search is ongoing and making slow progress.

It's all abundant, all good, happy and smiley, you may think.

But the other day I saw something that threw all of this upside down. It messed with my head and has left me in some turmoil and anguish.

It was lunchtime, I strolled over to Tesco at my work to get a sandwich and some fruit to nibble on. As I crossed the road a car drove passed me. Said car was flying a St George's flag, something that just about every car here seems to be doing.

It also had another flag. No biggie, lots of cars have been flying two flags and, as I mentioned, I'd fly a Lankan one with a St George's cross if possible.

Then I looked at the other flag. I blinked, cleared my vision and looked again, to check I hadn't made a mistake. I hadn't. It was the real thing and it was just so......wrong.

This car, a Merc, was flying a St George's flag and a, I struggle to even type this, a German flag. Yes a bloody German flag. I mean, there's mixed identity, there's abundance and world citizenship and all sorts but a German and English flag together. Gott in Himmel. Can you believe this?

My head, full of its theories was overpowered by my irrational heart.

It was just so wrong.

And now the match is over and England were well and truly thrashed, beaten by a German team that outclassed us in just about every department. Okay that ref's decision didn't help but I can't complain.

I drove back from watching the match at my friend's, took the St George's flag off my car and threw it in the bin. It's like losing so much more than just a game of football, it wouldn't have been so bad it we'd played better.

The worst thing? I've lost some serious money in a bet with David Blacker. Yes, in a fit of madness I bet 100 Sri Lankan Rupees on England. God knows what I was thinking, throwing money away like that.

Oook

I think you know what I mean.

This Blog Is Not Dead, SL2G And England.

Either.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That's it for now.

RD

The Ongoing K and Z Saga - Part 2

continued from here.

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

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

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

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

So Old Mrs Z really wanted some did she?

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

I answered.

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

"Hello" It did the trick.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was nice of her.

I (rep)lied

"No problem, anytime."

Sri Lanka Or Sri Lanka?

What's in a name you may ask?

Do you call it "Sri Lunkah" or Sree Lanker?

I was brought up to believe that "Sri Lunkah" is the correct pronunciation and that "Sree Lanker" is wrong. That was it, black and white, well more brown and white. Grey didn't exist, there was the correct way and the incorrect way. Suddhas say it incorrectly, Lankans say it correctly and Kalu Suddhas just mess things up.

As a kid, in Richmond at school, I'd call it "Sree Lanker" when talking to my British friends. I felt cheap and prostituted, like I was betraying my roots, but it made sense and I managed to live with the guilt. I'd mention the name at school using the Brit way then go home and chat with my parents and use the "proper" pronunciation.

There was rarely an overlap, an occasion when I'd be with a Suddha friend and one or both of my parents and get caught in a position of not knowing which way to turn, so there was never any real conflict. The thing that was definite in my mind, the banker, or bunker, was the right way to say it and the wrong way.

As I got older I maintained the view but, as I felt a stronger sense of identity, perhaps more confidence in my Sri Lankanness, I'd use the "correct" Sri Lunkah more and more, with Western people. I can't really explain the set of rules that I'd come up with to help me decide which pronunciation to use, but they were continually evolving anyhow and loosely based on how close I was to the Western person concerned.

Then, about ten years ago, something happened that messed up my mental equilibrium. I had a really close friend with me, a Lankan who was on holiday here in London, a fellow who's as Sri Lankan as can be and one of my oldest and best buddies. We were browsing in a local camera shop and for some reason he gave the shop assistant his name and address.

When he got to the country bit, you've guessed it, he told the guy that he lived in "Sree Lanker". I was cor blimey gobsmacked guvnor, I tell you Machang. I've never mentioned it to L, my friend, but it was evident that he'd chosen the Suddha way on that occasion as a means of communicating more easily with the very white and very British shop assistant.

Since then I've observed people and their choice of phonetics when saying the hallowed words. The results have surprised me. There's a large chunk of people who'll say "Sri Lunkah" all the time. Stick them with a group of whiter than white people who've never been outside the UK and they'll say it "correctly". Chuck them in the remotest village in the motherland and their pronunciation will be exactly the same.

There's another group of people, mostly western who'll say it "incorrectly" wherever they are.

But what has perplexed me is the number of people I'd consider Lankans, many with Lankan parents who are born here in the UK, some even in Sri Lanka, who'll use the Suddha way all or some of the time. These people have messed up my mindset and forced me to reevaluate. I've met people, brown ones no less, the sort who I'd always say Sri Lunkah to, who'll talk to me, or talk to people that I'd think of as fully Sri Lankan, who'll use the Western way all the time.

My reevaluation is a bit of a reflection on what I feel is my changing attitude towards many things in life anyhow, the fact that there is no right way and no wrong way, just different ways.

What is language? It's communication isn't it? A means of relating to each other to make ourselves understood. It has its limitations but it can also be very effective. So, when we succeed in making other people understand what we mean, it's working. When a person says Sri Lanka and gets it "wrong", it's me who's being wrong in judging them.

It also means that when I say "Sree Lanker" to someone I needn't feel bad or guilty. It's not actually a sign of how Sri Lankan I am, it's just a means of communicating.

What about you though? Which way do you say it and do you alter your choice depending on who you're with or where you are?

The Ongoing K and Z Saga

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

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

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

"Hi Dad"

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

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

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

"Can Z come round tomorrow?"

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

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

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

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

"Yes of course it is K"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Okay fine" I said.

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

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

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

"So is that okay?" she asked.

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

"In a few minutes" came the reply.

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

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

The Handicapped Child

I have some good friends who are foster parents. A few years ago they adopted an adorable child called Sarah Louise, who happens to be handicapped.

Sarah Louise is one of the most beautiful and lovable children anyone has ever met. Whenever there are visitors to the house they fall for her beauty and personality, invariably wanting to visit her time and time again. Some people have even bought property nearby just to be able to see more of her.

Strangers pass her in the street and are instantly captivated by her air of serendipity and friendliness. Most people who get to know her have a strange feeling that she could take on the world and probably beat it if only there were a few changes to her environment. Some admire her clothes, others swoon over her mind, many fall for her smile and others just love the complete package.

There's something about her. Really. Yet she has her problems.

One of them is her spine. Where many able bodied people have a strong and good backbone Sarah Louise has one that is sadly quite weak and failing at its very core. Sometimes it's hard for anyone else to see this. It can be covered up very easily by clothes and pretence.

Some Doctors reckon they could fix this. It wouldn't be easy and it might be painful for some time. Parts of Sarah Louise's life have actually benefitted for many years because of the bad spine. These elements would lose the benefits but the cure would enable the rest of her life to return to normal. And of course there are no guarantees.

The single biggest problem is the attitude and behaviour of her foster parents. When they first adopted her they embarked on an intensive and risky programme to try to defeat the infection in Sarah Louise's body. They succeeded, when many other people said they wouldn't. The others tried to help, many even hindered and were seen by her parents as interfering. The reality is that it was her parents who did defeat the infections. Other foster parents had tried, all had failed.

Since then other people have been questioning the methods used. They've been asking if perhaps the methods will turn out to be bad for Sarah Louise in the long term, whether the parents have been successful in treating the symptoms but have failed to deal with the cause.

The parents and their group of loyal friends have been happily accepting donations and help from neighbours and even total strangers, as long as those people haven't queried the methods used. As soon as a donor has asked any probing questions the parents have stuck two fingers up to them and told them where to go, accusing them of having ulterior motives, saying that they should take care of their own offspring first, before they criticise others.

Each time they say this they isolate themselves from the rest of society that little bit more.

And now, when things look as if they're better, some people outside the family are trying to help and yet are being branded as enemies. The parents act as if Sarah Louise is fully able bodied and totally refute any suggestion that underneath what looks to be a healed skin there might still be health issues. They won't let any Doctors look at her except the ones who'll tell them what they want to hear.

Even more people love Sarah Louise now that she looks so perfect. They come to see her, they court her and they tell their friends about her.

The parents feel and act as if the job is done. They're talking about Sarah Louise entering the Olympics, competing with able bodied people. Who knows? She might just do it, in years to come. I reckon it would be better for her parents to listen to other Doctors, to take advice and help Sarah Louise to take small steps first, then look at the bigger ones.

I suppose the crux of the problem is that they label her as handicapped when it suits them, then tell everyone she's able bodied when they don't like what they hear.

In the meantime Sarah Louise sits and suffers.

Or does she?

Flying The Flag

World Cup Fever is upon us here in England in a big way. It's almost as if it happens every four years.

Each time, when England qualify that is, there's an air of optimism, a feeling that this could be the one, well the second I suppose. But this year there's something different about the optimism. It's an optimism that's more tangible and realistic than ever before. England go into the finals as one of the leading contenders and, with Fabio Capello in charge, there's a confidence in the team that the nation has lacked for so long.

Second generation types like myself must feel a zillion different ways, perhaps even two zillion. For me there's an immense pride in my Britishness and my support of England. I never consider myself English but Sri Lankan and British. My feeling is that the Enlish thing is about the bloodline and heritage and that's where I'm Sri Lankan.

Will I be supporting Engand?

Too fucking right will I.

Yesterday I bought my St George's flag which is now proudly flying from my car. Every other car here, whether driven by black, white, brown or yellow sports a St George's flag, with the occasional stray vehicle flying a dodgy foreign one.

There's something about the whole thing that makes me proud of the cosmopolitan nature of England. Hardly anyone looks at a person's colour and questions their credentials, their right to support the team and fly the flag. I heard a rumour that there's some brown fellow in Borehamwood wondering the streets wearing a sarong with the St George's cross on it!

I've been wondering how it would work if someone printed up a load of dual flags, Sri Lankan on one side and St George's on the other. I'd buy one immediately and fly it with one hundred per cent pride. Let's run it up the flagpole and see who salutes shall we?

Good luck England!

Meeting That Gypsy - Part Two

Is here.

Read it.

It's all untrue. Totally.

Meeting Gypsies Of The Bohemian Variety At Airports - Pt 1

I left Colombo a couple of Saturdays ago, though it feels like a couple of decades as things have been somewhat hectic since I returned. I was on that flight, the UL one that leaves at about two in the morning. The biggest problem with this flight is the confusion involved when you tell friends when you're leaving.

Technically two in the morning is actually on Sunday, but it was Saturday night that I left. Tell people you're leaving on Sunday and things get mad. In fact when I told you in the first sentence of this post that I left a couple of Saturdays ago it was, in fact, wrong. I've always liked to live dangerously though. And of course these days they have a two o'clock in the morning both on Saturdays and Sundays, in fact almost one a day. It's a total headspin it is.

On that Saturday morning I did some net perusing, reading tweets, facebook status (should that be statii?) and the like. I saw some of them written by that girl, the Bohemian Gypsy one, and she mentioned that she was flying out of the country that day. Hmmm... I thought to myself. Perhaps this was an opportunity to try to finally meet her.

I rang a few friends and managed to get hold of a number for her, no mean feat as she values her privacy and we'd never made contact before apart from comments on blogs and the like. I sent her a text, or to say it in Singlish, I sent her an SMS. It went like this:

"Hi Gypsy this is RD. Are you going to be at the airport tonight. Perhaps we could meet for a drink or something?"

She responded.

"Hi RD. Sorry but I'm very protective of my privacy, as you'll write in your blog, and don't want to meet face to face. Besides I've heard you're very charming and good looking and I'm afraid I'll fall for you."

What can a chap do? Far be it from me to argue about my charm and good looks so I sent a polite response to say that it was a shame but I understood. Then I headed off with C for lunch at the Gallery Cafe. I had the prawn curry with the kankun but had been hovering dangerously on the precipice between that and the black pork curry.

In the evening, after that fairly normal Lankan confusion in finding my good friend's driver when he came to collect me from my hotel (you can imagine it; he knew my name, I knew his but we'd never met before), I found myself on route to the airport. It was about nine and things were a bit sleepy on the road.

I felt sad. I was leaving C, leaving Colombo, leaving Sri Lanka and so many friends. The journey is a long one and yet I always wish it was longer, for the moment the car turns off the airport road into the airport part I feel as if my time in Sri Lanka is over. After that it becomes just another air trip, punctuated by a few random bits of Sri Lankanness, like laughing at the Suddas who get to the passport bit to find out they need to fill out an embarkation form thing and have to go back and do one, or watching them get pissed off with the natives' lack of ability to queue properly when entering the baggage screening bit.

Once I arrived at BIA I did all the usual things, barging my way past queues of lobster pink people with rectangular Kuoni boxes of flowers and locally made brown leather bags that I knew they would have paid handsomely for, and checked in. I'm Lankan enough to jump in front of a person or two at the queue but British enough to still feel a bit bad about it, invariably apologising profusely afterwards and offering them my place.

I went through immigration and up the escalator and realised I had a lot of time to kill, even by my own anal standards I was incredibly early. I'd allowed lots of extra time because of the possibility of floods and the journey had been as clear as a bell. The result was that I was there, checked in and airside and had about three hours to kill. There was a seat outside Coffee Bean so I took it and stole some of their WiFi.

With a serious measure of reluctance I ambled into the restaurant bit, the Palm Leaf I think it's called. I hate that place, first from previous years when they'd only take foreign currency and secondly because it is just so bloody expensive that's it almost criminal. I'd seen a German eating chips near the Coffee Bean, not Sebastian Posingis though, and the ensuing hunger had got the better of me.

It almost cost me about four hundred and fifty rupees for the chips. I tell you it's exorbitant. Lady Luck was on my side and the fellow behind the till, in some moment of madness, totally messed up the whole giving me my change thing. The price was four hundred and thirty or so, I gave him a five hundred and he kindly gave me about four hundred and thirty as change. I grabbed the change and took my seat, all the time expecting to hear "Excuse me Sir".

In a twist of fate, one that almost made me believe in God, the chips then had so much salt on them that they were virtually inedible. And I say that as someone with a Sri Lankan taste in food. Had I paid the correct price I would have complained, but felt that there'd be something morally wrong in doing that. I managed to eat all except about three chips.

As I walked out of the Palm Leaf, replete with salt, I walked towards the dodgy BMW five series and the Odel with its pricing in US Dollars and I heard a loud flapping sound from behind me. I stopped, turned round and looked and saw nothing. Nothing except a really tall bird with massive feet, probably about size eleven. She was wearing a T shirt with some writing on it. The writing was in pink and a font bigger than the one containing all of human wisdom. It said:

"I am the Bohemian Gypsy. I like my privacy so stay away."

Two things went through my mind: first was that I'd never seen a T shirt with a clickable link on it before, secondly who was this mysterious girl? I felt as if I knew her. I turned back round and continued walking, the flapping sound returned and I realised it was the huge feet that were the cause.

I felt a tap on my shoulder. I spun round quickly, then noticed I'd gone too far and had spun three hundred and sixty degrees. I turned again, this time doing it much better and facing behind me, well the direction that was behind me before.

The big footed girl with the T shirt was looking at me. In a voice that was curiously deep and squeeky, sounding like she'd just swallowed a helium balloon and a bass guitarist she said:

" Excuse me, is your name RD?"

to be continued......

Real Love

I might as well take a chance. This is Solskala, the fantastically groovy collective that I'm involved with. It's a rough as buggery recording, made without most of our knowledge (or I would have done my hair!), most of us had only just learned the song and both the sound and visual quality are rough, to say the least.

Still, have a look, filter out the bad points and tell me what you think.

Anyone In London?

If you're in London and fancy a Tueday evening of tripped out funky Latin grooves then why not come to this?

I'll be doing my best to make Solskala sound fantastic and it promises to be a chilled and sway your hips seductively to the beat type of night.

Get down, you know you want to.

Even that Gypsy will be coming, she'll be wearing a Chinese hat.

Made Me Smile

Colombo Condom Buying

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Or something roughly along those lines.

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

"Excuse me" I said.

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

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

"Have you got any condoms?"

"Uh?" he said.

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

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

"Yes"

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

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

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

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

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

"How much is that?" I requested.

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

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

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

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

DUREX x2

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

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

And so went my good friend's story.

Rentals In Sort Of Law Arrival Pending

You recall I told you that I've got C's parents coming to stay with me for a few days? See point number 8 on this post.

Well the thing is that it's happening, and it's happening tomorrow. And, when I told you in the aforementioned point number 8 that I was shitting large bricks, I was pretty much misunderexaggerating. I reckon I'm a calm sort of chap, in possession of a set of feathers that don't often get ruffled, but this has ruffled the RD feathers.

You see C won't be around, it will just be me and her 'rents in RD Towers and I'm going to be doing my utmost to impress them. There was I, not too long ago, telling you about K's rather successful attempts to impress me with that boy Z, with his tales of drumming and music, and now here I am on the other end of the fish.

The Father, we'll call him Dr T, is a rather well known Colombo gynaecologist. I've got another post in the pipeline in which I'll tell you more about that but my point here is that I can't really strive to impress him with tales of my "expertise" in his choice of profession. For starters I even had to spell check the word "gynaecologist", or actually "gynocologist" as I'd written it. Then what would we discuss? If he's seen any good hoo hoos lately, or what?

It's not like drumming either. I don't envisage him and me bonding over tales of my amateur gynaecology, particularly when it concerns his daughter. There'll be no chat about what sort of sticks we use, who our influences are, that sort of thing. Don't get me wrong, we've met many a time and chewed the curry flavoured cud quite happily, but this is different.

C has kindly emailed me a long shopping list of food to buy for them and this is going to be particularly useful. The mother, we'll call her Mother T, is a vegetarian and not even a proper one who eats fish and prawns and most meat. No, she's one of those weird extreme ones who don't touch anything that has lived.

If not for that I'd have been quietly confident in my ability to impress them with a bit of rice and c, but my culinary skill with vegetables is on a par with the average woman's ability to be totally crap at multi tasking. RD Towers will be bursting at the seams with microwave vegetable lasagnes and all manner of things on the list, lentils and whatnot.

I've had my car cleaned throughly by some local East Europeans and am hoping that might look good on me. I've organised that my parents are going to have them for dinner on Friday night and I reckon that will be successful. Four oldish Sri Lankan people getting together and bitching about their kids is always a recipe for an enjoyable evening.

The scariest thing?

Only a few hours after they arrive they'll come up against meet A and K for the very first time. Even as I write this I get a butterflyish feeling in the very pit of my stomach. C's parents are going to witness me, their daughter's boyfriend, as a Father. A and K, those little lovelies you now know so well who know me as their Dad, are going to see me as, well you know.

The only variable I'm confident in is Mother T. She's a sound old bird in the best traditions and I know her and the girls will be fine. God alone knows what will happen with A and K and the good Dr T.

Wish me well please. I have a feeling I'll need it.

Leaving Again

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

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

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

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

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

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

So, Here We Are

Back in Colombo and things are the usual frenetic hustle and bustle. I left London on Saturday morning and got here to discover how lucky I was to be able to even take off from Heathrow. This ash cloud looms largely over air travel doesn't it?

Then, once I hit Colombo I witnessed rain like I've never seen. Well, I've seen this sort of rain before, the downward heading and wet variety, but never for so long and so continuous. Each morning as I gaze out of my window with the AC on, it looks as though I'm in the UK, except for the fact that it's blistering hot there this week.

Sunday afternoon was pleasant, chilled, relaxed and mellow. That's what Barefoot jazz does to a man, even a slightly jetlagged one who had that dazed with tiredness drunken feeling going on. I played a funky song or two with the Speldewinde chap, they let me do this now when they want to clear the place I think, and hung with friends, shot the breeze, not that there was any, and felt the warmth on my skin.

Java's not in town and I miss him. I know he'll moan about me not going to see him up in his lair, but I will do it eventually, I promise.

And, while I feel a bit narked about the rain and the weather, I was just told something that puts things in perspective and makes me feel humble, well a bit of a wanker actually. It's the fact (unverified but from a trustworthy source) that 100,000 people have been displaced by this weather in the last few days. That's just mental and wrong.

It seems the most of the literary types here are raving about chinaman, not the little yellow fellow who delivers your takeaway but the book by Shehan Karunatilaka. A few feet away from me is a carrier bag with five copies of the thing inside it. That's how excited I am about reading it.

I know bugger all about cricket but I'm hoping my knowledge of Sri Lanka and chinese food will be sufficient. I've been looking for a fantastically stimulating can't put it down until you've read that next bit book to read for a while and I think this could be the one.

It's 8.40 AM as I'm about to hit the publish button. Just to wind up people like the Auf, DD and T (the NY one) I feel a need to inform you that my breakfast of string hoppers, chicken curry, pol sambol and a touch of that red chilli sambol is sitting rather heavily on the stomach. It's nothing that won't get dislodged by a good rice and curry lunch somewhere though.

Laters all.

RD

Change, Democracy, Pomp And Police

Over here in the UK we've now had our change of Prime Minister and government and, for the first time in my life, I've watched the events and proceedings with a certain sense of optimism and hope about the state of British politics.

I drove home from work on Tuesday night and listened to the radio. The friendly but slightly arrogant presenter told us that the negotiations between the conservatives and the liberals looked to be almost at their conclusion, that there would possibly be an announcement that night on a coalition government. At worst the feeling was that things would be sorted by Wednesday morning, even the barrage of "experts" being interviewed every few minutes agreed with this.

I got home, did a poo, as a man does, then did some sit ups and relaxed. Then I turned on the TV and, lo and behold, my expected trip to Albert Square, E20, to watch Eastenders was rudely interrupted by all sorts of fascinating shenanigans representing many of the good things about Britishness and not a few of the (m)/(b)ad.

Gordon Brown was just leaving Downing Street and heading off to Buckingham Palace to tell the Queen that he was resigning. His timing could have been better. One can only hope the Queen doesn't watch Eastenders or she would have been as pissed off as the rest of us. As I listened to the commentary it became apparent that he'd decided to do this before the conservatives and the lib dems had formally agreed on anything, an interesting twist, maybe his last attempt at some sort of a powerplay.

His car was swanked by a couple of Police bikes and a few cars and they stopped the traffic with the ease and seamlessness that most people who've lived in London will have witnessed many times. It's a highly effective sort of relay in which one to three of the Police bikes go ahead, stop traffic at the next couple of junctions, then let the VIP through and overtake his car and repeat the whole process.

I've heard stories that in some countries, even when it's not so much a VIP but more a distant relative of a slightly VIP (cerno would call them a DROASVIP), the whole area is closed down for a period of several hours to let the person through and this happens many times a day because so many people want to be seen as important. Well we have none of that over here, where British understatement and head down behaviour is all the rage, not that we have rages.

It was funny to watch. The pomp and circumstance that is part of our monarchy, the way in which Gordon had to officially go and see the Queen to tender his resignation. The helicopter camera followed his five minute journey and then other cameras showed him entering the Palace. After that we waited and the TV anchormen, desperately seeking things to say while we all waited, speculated on what exactly the Queen would say to him and how long things would take.

The level of detail that the presenters talked about was astounding, yet I couldn't help find myself being caught up in it and being interested in things that, on balance, probably weren't relevant to the running of a country.

My mind, and you won't be surprised about this, went on a wild extrapolating spree. I wondered if the Queen would have made some sandwiches for Gordon, if he might have asked to use the toilet before he left. Would she, at the end of the meeting, ask if he wanted to stay for some pot luck? And, seeing as he did work for her really, would she accept his resignation and, if so, what sort of reference would she give him?

Some time later he left, clearly not being asked to stay for dinner, he'd probably stop off at an Indian and get a takeaway on the way home, not that he had a home anymore. I thought this was a bit thoughtless of the Queen to be honest, but then she's not Sri Lankan and she might have been keen to see Eastenders, which was on hold until things had finished. She may have let him use the phone at the Palace to ring the Indian and order his food, that would have been the decent thing to do.

As his car pulled out of Buckingham Palace the commentators remarked on two things that were so British and insignificant yet strangely important. The first was the fact that the guards at the Palace saluted Mr Brown when his car entered the gates but then, when he left, they also saluted him, which they shouldn't have done.

Our esteemed commentators told us that it was correct protocol to salute the Prime Minister but he left as a common man and therefore didn't warrant a salute. Perhaps they had decided to throw protocol to the wind and act a bit madly. In royal circles giving a chap a salute he's not entitled to is like dancing the baila with your sarong folded up at the back to reveal your bum to everyone; a little bit crazy and mad but something we've all done.

The second thing was along the same lines. He arrived with the aforementioned Police escort and outriders but leaving as a civilian meant that he wasn't entitled to all of that. So he exited the grounds of Buckingham Palace being driven in his car with no privileges whatsoever. The helicopter footage showed his car on its own with no entourage, getting stuck in traffic and queuing with the rest of the plebs, most of whom were travelling home blissfully unaware of who was sitting in the back of the car next to them.

After that was all done it was the turn of David Cameron, the leader of the conservatives and now our new Prime Minister, to do the same thing, but in reverse. He turned up at the Queen's house in his solo car, battling through the London traffic like any civilian, to "be invited" by Her Maj to form a government.

I reckon this "be invited" terminology was an interview of sorts. She probably asked him about his previous jobs, why he left them, what his strengths and weaknesses are, that kind of thing. Of course whether he lives locally and if he's ever run a country before would have been taken into consideration very seriously and they might have haggled over the salary a bit, maybe Cameron held out for a slightly higher specification car or a longer lunch break.

Finally, before offering him the job, she would have asked him about his personal interests, what level of badminton he actually plays, just to establish if he'd bullshitted on his CV, standard stuff.

Whatever happened it was enough for the Queen to give him the job and the new Prime Minister left, with Police escort. I can't recall if the guards saluted him, but he headed to Downing Street where he gave a quick speech and went in, presumably to meet his new staff. His wife was with him. I guess she wanted to have a look, see where the hoover's kept and what redecorating she wants to do, that kind of thing.

Why am I optimistic?

Well I'm not a fan of the conservatives per se. But most people I've encountered have expressed exasperation with Gordon Brown and the labour party. It hasn't helped that Brown isn't a charismatic looking leader, if he went out on the pull with Bill Clinton and Tony Blair it's a safe bet that he'd be the one going home alone at the end of the night.

On the other hand, while it seems so many were disillusioned with labour and Brown, there weren't many who strongly backed one of the alternatives. I was one of these types; a fundamentally labour person who had doubts if labour under Brown was the right choice but didn't want the conservatives in and didn't think the Lib dems would get in anyhow.

What we've got, with a little bit of wind in the right direction, could just be a government with hints of everything good. At the very least, in my world that is, it's a government that seems to reflect what the public wanted, except those people who wanted labour.

As the bloke who fixed my watch said; time will tell.

And it all dragged on for so long that they postponed Eastenders.

The Trouble With Sri Lankan Food

Like most of us around these parts I love Sri Lankan food. In fact, like most Sri Lankans I just love food, with a leaning towards anything Sri Lankan.

I read Lankan recipes and food blogs and look like a dog with a cooked cat being dangled in front of its face. I suspect I drool, I make no apologies for that. There's no better smell than that of some garlic, curry leaves and mustard seed frying, just waiting to become the base for whatever curry is dish of the day.

Indian food is just that; Indian food, though very nice. Sri Lankan food is rice and curry, the real deal.

But there is a problem with Lankan food, one that I've put my finger on lately. I feel like a doctor who's diagnosed an illness that a fellow's had for years but, instead of wondering what's been wrong with him all this time, the patient has had that vague feeling that something wasn't right.

Yes, I ask you to bear with me on this one, the fact is, and I so hate to say this, Sri Lankan food is NOT photogenic.

"Don't be so stupid RD, there's nothing more appetising than a good photo of a plateful of rice and curry." I hear you shouting at the monitor.

Well the fact is that the photo isn't appetising, it's our knowledge of what the food tastes like that makes it feel that way. Particularly for us diasporic types, stranded in remote, savage and lawless territories like the UK and Japan, where we pine for all things Sri Lankan and would prefer a glass of Portello to a crate of the finest champagne.

There are foods that look good, they're the international supremodels of the food world, the Claudias and the Elles of gastronomy. Of course the Italian and meditteranean varieties rank highly in this chart. A picture of a nice Spanish Paella is full of colour and texture and looks good in its own right, a nice photo of a lovely pasta dish can be bursting with reds and greens and convey a feeling of freshness and Latin lusciousness.

An image of some sizzling British sausages with the skin caramelised has an appeal that I feel yet can't explain, there's no level involved between the picture and my mind, I could eat the picture.

And then we give the world our staple; parippu. I love a bowl of dhal as much as the next Sri Lankan, I'll eat it for breakfast with toast or on its own with rice or grab a few spoonfuls out of a cold portion sitting in the fridge. But, like so many other Sri Lankan dishes it just doesn't look good.

Face it, it you were a white person with no knowledge of Lankan cuisine, you'd hardly see a recipe for parippu with a picture and feel like you want to try making it, would you? Once we know what it tastes like things are very different. Mallungs and pol sambol are usually quite bright in colour but usually there's just the one colour blaring at us at a level eleven. Artificial food colourings have been banned for less.

String hoppers are the culinary equivalent of a night with (insert name of ideal partner here....) but they don't look great, resembling plain noodles thrown at a wall until they stick together a bit. Murunga tastes like heaven on a plate, but if Indiana Jones stumbled across some in the jungle he'd be scared of it and probably push the girl in front of him towards it first.

I was reading that cookery book the other day, the newish one by that Peter Kuruvita. It's fantastic, full of seemingly easy to follow and delicious looking recipes, interesting anecdotes and tales about his life and family in Sri Lanka. The photographs are stunning too. But I just don't think the great food of Serendib is easy to portray in a way that makes it look appealing.

Unless of course you already know what it tastes like.

Any thoughts?

Some Random Bits And Pieces

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

General Election - British Style

So I voted. It's 6.08 PM on election day as I write and, by the time you read this, the UK will have a new, or maybe the same, Prime Minister.

It's quite good voting in a country like this one. First thing this morning I dug out my electoral register voting slip thing and peered at the map on it to try and figure out where my polling station was. Off I went. Winnie the Pooh would have enjoyed the sun and blue sky and hummed a little ditty, something along the lines of

"Dum dum di dum di dum"

I'm not a fucking talking bear so I didn't. I just did my usual thing; walked and tried to look cool in a not trying to look cool way. The polling station was the local library and as British as chicken tikka masala; quiet, calm and understated.

There wasn't the slightest feeling of impending violence, no white vans lurked suspiciously and things were generally quieter than on one of the library's normal working days. As I walked towards the entrance a sweet old woman asked for my polling card number and made a note of it, they do that to look at turnout I think, and then I went in and did my thing.

X marked the spot and I had two votes, one for the Parliamentary election and another for the local council election. I read the instructions on the wall of my booth, trying to convey that air of knowing what I was doing, as if I was glancing at the wall with disinterest rather than reading the instructions before my maiden parachute jump.

Then I jumped. Well, I bunged a few Xs in the appropriate places, hardly a parachute jump to be honest.

As I left I was accosted by the chap at the front, the one who'd watched to make sure I put the ballot paper in the box properly. It sounds easy but you'd be surprised at how nervous I was about doing it correctly.

"Excuse me, can I ask you a question" the chap said.

I baulked that little bit, thinking that it was inappropriate for one of these official fellows to ask who I'd voted for.

"Have you got a brother?" he continued.

"Erm yes" I said. Cleverly. Not that either of their names is actually "Cleverly", like Beverley, which seems to be a name strangely popular among Sri Lankan men. Why is this? I've never met a white man called Beverley but have known three Sri Lankan males with the B moniker.

Turns out that the chap went to school at my old school and was a classmate of Music Biz bro. We had a little catch up talk and then parted.

And that was it. On the way out the sweet old woman asked me the same question as she had on the way in, then realised her mistake and apologised profusely.

Off I went with a total lack of ink marks applied to any of my fingers, or even those of my grandmother.

As I write this the country has been enveloped by a certain eerie calmness. Campaigning is over and I guess many people are still to vote. It's three or four hours until the post election results programmes begin on all the TV channels and each of them attempts to parade the most eye catching technology and the best analysis.

Once the counts start to come in all hell will break loose. Every expert in the country will be predicting all sorts of things and swingometers will be swinging more than King Louie out of Jungle Book on a banana hunt.

But one thing I reckon is a certainty.

Tomorrow, or today, whatever the result, whoever we decide we want in charge of the country, and it will be our decision, the loser won't be arrested and charged with, well, unknown charges.

Hmmm....democracy. I think I like it, though I prefer string hoppers.

Lately In The Lankanosphere....

You know what? It's been almost six months since I last did one of these. Sorry about that, I blame it on the sad loss of my moving tag cloud, which has now been resurrected, thanks to the Goddess like Amanda Fazani and her highly advanced huge big massive brain.

What's been going on in these months? Well in life there have elections of the Presidential and Parliamentary variety. Much to the surprise of, well, no one really, MR won everything, though he failed to win first prize in the under ten section of the Petersham Flower show in 1976. Oh yes, that was won by me, for my balsa wood ship.

On the Lankan blogging side things have been subdued. I've been pondering on the future of blogs quite a bit and have a draft post about the matter soon to be finished, but it's clear that the old favourites now surface sporadically, a word I rather like to use. Sporadically.

Indi has abandoned the popular post feature on Kottu and the message at the time told us that it was because of misuse. In all honesty I wonder if this has has an effect on the Lankanopshere, at least the element of it that's listed on Kottu. Misuse and click abuse, assuming those are what Indi referred to, are bad, evil and false but Kottu lost a bit of interactivity and a certain sense of friendly competition when those "most popular" posts and blog things went.

I guess that no one has been able to come up with a workable suggestion as an alternative, which might be a huge help to Indi. It certainly seems that Kottu is a bit of a list of blogs these days, too objective for some? Pray tell, what do you think on this?

And talking of the Kottumeister, well he's been off travelling for a bit and has regaled us with some fascinating observations and stories of his adventures. However, I was blown away by one of Indi's pictures, this one here. Check it out, it's special, one of those that makes me feel all excited. On the writing side this post, on Sri Lankan driving made me chuckle like it's going out of fashion and smile in that patronising way, the way we all smile when we spot white people in their van on their way from the airport and see the look on their faces as they witness Lankan roads for the very first time.

Drama Queen, or DQ or Hissyfits, whichever moniker she likes, has been back and as funny as ever. Her post here gives us mere mortals some helpful and brilliant advice on how to deal with the trials and tribulations of everyday life. Among other things she suggests we fight, drink, become a nun, see a psychiatrist, poo or do any mixture of them. Read the post if you want to laugh.

Darwin, probably the best parasitologist I know, has finished her thesis and is sort of enjoying the freedom. Good luck for tomorrow Darwin!

Lady Divine, who recently won the much coveted Blog of the Year award in that highly prestigious awards ceremony, has just celebrated her twenty sixth birthday and breathed a huge sigh of relief. Her mother has been doing her utmost to marry her off but our LD has resisted bravely and is still with us in the world of single people.

And on the same day The Auf, that legendary figure who even Chuck Norris admires, celebrated four years of blogging. It seems that May 3rd is a celebratory day all round. I've had the privilege of getting to know The Auf recently and he truly is one of life's deep thinking but nice fellows. I reckon I could take him in a fight though.

Makuluwo continues to churn out funny posts in her unique style on a regular basis. This post about writing is particularly good but you can pick any one of her nuggets and be sure to get a good dose of hilarity out of it.

T, the Dance In A Triangle T, not the other one, has been getting used to life back in the US of A, but also delving into her memory banks and giving us some stories of her travels in Sri Lanka. This postlet contains some photographs that have captured the Sri Lankan light brilliantly. The bluer than blue skies and the warmth of that sun just seem to shine through. Then there's this post, with its picture of what must surely be the best named Police post in the world. I might ring them just to hear the way they answer the phone.

Of course in recent months the Lankanosphere has been filled with posts on politics, Generals, Presidents and the like. I won't tell you much about them, on the one hand because it all seems so in the past now, on the other hand because you've probably read the ones you wanted to.

It's a bit old but this post by Serendib Isle caught my eye big time. I actually disagree with SI's take on the matter but he's one of those mature bloggers who I always feel I can disagree with without running the risk of falling out or entering into a war of (swear) words and insults about my mother and heritage in general. The graph he has included is very thought provoking and, for me, one of the biggest things it shows is that Sri Lanka's level of corruption is pretty damn high whichever way you look at it or whoever you ask.

There have been a lot of new blogs hitting the Lankanosphere and frankly most of them have been unimpressive in my humble O. There is one that grabbed me by the proverbials as I was doing my usual morning routine of pretending to be doing important stuff at work whilst actually reading blogs. It's this one, called Shooting Up The Place, by a fellow called Geeshan.

He tells us that he's a photojournalist and by golly he really is. The Lankan blogosphere is rife with chaps who can narrate a damn fine story, some even as wittily as myself, and even rifer with other geezers who can paint with light and some glass and some bits with Nikon or Canon stamped all over them. But it's rare to find someone who can do both and Geeshan is one of these examples. Or two of them.

I might be biased for I've always been a sucker for a decent picture set against a black background. Check his stuff out for yourself though, I guarantee you'll like it too. I'll be checking into his blog regularly.

And those are the ones that have captured my imagination lately. Click on the links, peruse the blogs, leave lots of comments on them and argue with people in a polite non name calling fashion. If you want more then set your browser to warp factor Kottu and explore there.

RD

PS - I've just been told that my first prize in the 1976 Petersham Flower Show under ten section is "being investigated". Damn, I knew it wouldn't last. Some bloke with a big moustache has complained that the ballot was rigged or something.

Oh No, Another Boy!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh well, at least F likes Muse.