The Party - Part 2

continued from here...

....Despite the eleven or twelve hour flight, my tiredness and need of rest I absolutely had to tidy things up and make it respectable before I even sat down. My Mum helped me, all the while standing up for her eldest granddaughter. And, while we're here, when you continue something, like I have above, with the dots like this...... well should I start the first word ("despite" in this case) with a capital letter? I never know about these things.

"Don't be too hard on her RD"

"It's not too bad RD"

"It's like that time we went away and you had a party"

"No Mum it's not" I said, for the reason they found out was that I got the carpets cleaned and they came back and noticed that things were too clean. What the hell is it about grandparents? As parents they give us hell, then when our kids do the very same stuff that we got hell for doing, it's all different.

It only took us about half an hour to get things in a wholly respectable state. A quick Dyson over the floors, empty the bin, put the dishwasher on, wipe the surfaces down, handwash a couple of things and we were done.

Which kind of disappointed me more, the fact that it wouldn't actually have taken A that long to have made it perfectly nice.

I rested and seethed, wondering how to tackle the situation with her.

We all have things in our life, situations to deal with and problems to handle that are challenging. I don't want to sound like I'm moaning. One of my things with A, not so much with K who has reacted differently to things, is that I find it very hard to "parent" her. By "parent" I mean things that a father who wasn't divorced would probably take for granted.

Four years down the road, though she's healing, she retains some anger towards me for the divorce and the consequences. I understand this but it's very hard to deal with sometimes. I want to be the Dad, to be able to counsel, to tell off and advise where appropriate. And I have two daughters and, as everyone knows, girls are evil.

So the thing is with A, often when faced with a situation in which I have to tell her off, a concept I'm not a fan of anyhow, preferring to try to talk calmly, she'll literally remove herself from the scene, by just storming off in a huff. When you live under one roof this is one thing as they'll usually eventually return, seeking food and shelter, that sort of thing.

But, when you're divorced and living separately the dynamics are a bit different and the storming off is back to the other home, where one parent can be played off against the other by the smart kid.

Vut too doo?

I knew that the situation was unacceptable, that something had to be done. I just wasn't sure exactly what it was that had to be done and how to do it. After a spell of pondering and a nice poo, the first in my own toilet for a couple of weeks, always a pleasure, I sent a text to each of the girls.

To K I just said that I'm back, a bit about the flight and how I was looking forward to seeing her. I said similar things to A but also that I was sad to see the state of my apartment. A lot of thought had gone into my wording. I reasoned that a mere "I'm back and angry with you" type of text would have backfired and felt that use of the word "sad" was wise.

She responded with some "I'm entirely innocent what are you talking about?" message. I told her that I'd talk with her on Wednesday about it, the next time I was due to see them. I know full well that a sixteen year old girl, whose head is filled with things like drama, boys, clothes and why that other girl is angry because she like you know well said that like to her and then she like told me, really really really worries about being told off by her parents.

Wednesday came round and I collected the girls. I was nice, giving them the presents I'd bought in Sri Lanka and catching up with things. Then I summoned A to my room where I told her, in calm tones, that I was really disappointed about the state of my apartment. I told her that she'd been disrespectful to me and that, if it was going to happen again (a big "if") she needed to understand that my apartment has to be left exactly how she found it.

There was a brief few seconds of fight from her, just token words really. Some garbled things about not knowing how to put on the dishwasher or where to put the rubbish. But, after I more or less laughed at these objections, she apologised profusely, told me she understood and said that it wouldn't happen again.

This left me feeling like a salesperson who's just made a big and good sale but knows that he set his price too low. I got the exact result I wanted; an apology and a promise of no repeat, it just didn't feel right. But, when you sell something for too little, you can't go back and ask the customer for more money, unless you're a graduate of the Sri Lankan school of customer service, which I'm not.

Still, job done we moved on. I knew she'd had a party of sorts on the 31st Dizzember, I knew that she'd overstepped the boundaries, I'd dealt with it and I knew that next time I'd let her do it again as long as she tidied properly, which she probably wouldn't do.

That was, as you may have worked out, about three, nearly four weeks ago. Life ticked on as usual during that time.

Until last Sunday.

........... to be continued. Yeah I know, sorry about that, but there's more.

Party Round My Place!

Remember I told you briefly, in not much detail, about A, my sixteen year old asking if she could "have a few friends round" to RD Towers when I was away in the motherland for the new year?

Well here's an update, as well as a precis of what happened in the first place. I'd appreciate your help, advice and wise counsel. Not you Blacker!

A few days before I departed for Serendib, around the 20th of December, or Dizzember as it's pronounced in Singlish, A asked me if she could have some friends round on the 31st to RD Towers.

My gut reaction was No, with a capital N and, as I think on it, probably with a capital O as well, so more of a NO than a mere No. But logic and rationale raged a battle against gut feeling and instinct in my head. I wouldn't have wanted to be a fellow passing through the RD mind at around that time. Most of it was absorbed by that last few days level of excitement I get whenever I'm about to hit the shores of Lanka.

I feel a constant urge to poo, a conscious need to remind myself to breathe, something I'm normally pretty good at, and a disconnect from what's actually going on around me at the time. So, while all of this was happening, my mind had to also deal with that fierce war between the logic and the gut about letting A have my apartment.

Gut feeling was shouting pretty loudly about boys, alcohol and Facebook messages telling people that there was shindig going on at A's Dad's luxury pad. Logic was muttering slightly under its breath about points that I, the Dad who struggles, would score by letting A do this. Rationale was also mumbling things about A having the apartment a couple of times before and there never being a problem, that she'd actually been quite responsible. Even Cerno would have been bewildered by the variety of voices in my head.

So, after listening to all the voices, I had a poo. Then I texted A and said a firm, a resounding and an emphatic NO. There are times, and all men will relate to this, when we're firm, strong and resolute. We mean what we say and we say what we mean. We don't negotiate, we don't waiver. This was one of those times.

About four minutes later I'd agreed to let her use the apartment. I can't be entirely sure how it happened, but, to be honest, I'd never fully made up my mind in the first place. A few text messages, that deadly combination of sweet talk and threats, of "Dad I'll be really grateful" with "Yeah Dad, there's never been a problem before, what's YOUR problem?" seemed to do the trick.

And so it came to pass that, on 31st Dizzember, I celebrated with friends, flashed a bit of nipple and shook a leg or two, all with a mental background of worry and anguish about what was going to be taking place in my apartment.

I'd laid down some strict conditions; no boys, no alcohol and a maximum of four girls apart from A were allowed to stay the night there. I knew that my conditions were about as powerful and effective as the department of bribery and corruption in Sri Lanka. A's fuss free acceptance of my terms only made my anguish worse.

During the course of the night I sent A a couple of texts. There was a happy new year one, its hidden message being "is my flat okay?" She replied saying all was fine, with that exasperated tone in her text message. How on earth can a woman, particularly one who's only sixteen and still in training, manage to portray a sighing and exasperated tone in a text message? They do it though, it must be ingrained in their genes or something.

On New Year's day I spoke to her and was told in sighing tones again that everything was cool, that all went well and no apartments had been burnt to a cinder. I let it go, figuring that I could do no more and would find out the truth upon my return.

I got back to Londinium on the 9th day of 2011, coincidentally it was also the 9th of January. My 'rents picked me up at the airport. As hard as I try, I can't seem to prevent from happening. As usual I navigated for my Dad as he negotiated that tricky journey; from the airport to my place. He manages to make every road appear as if it was only built the day before despite the fact that he's lived in that very neck of the woods for about forty years.

We got to the flat, I was tired and had aeroplane breath, that strange smell of sickness and tiredness that only happens after a long flight and is never quite remedied by brushing teeth and using mouthwash on the plane itself.

I didn't know what to expect. The apartment might have been spotless, sparkling and clean as a whistle, it might have been as grubby and dirty as could be or anywhere in between.

As me and my olds entered the place my heart dropped. It was, on a scale of grubbiness from one to ten where ten is as bad as it gets, hovering at about a twenty seven. The kitchen dustbin was full to the brim, the bag tied up but not emptied. The dishwasher was full, badly stacked too would you believe, and hadn't been put on. There were dirty glasses out, bits of tobacco around, mud all over one carpet in one of the bedrooms and I felt totally pissed off......

to be continued..........(sorry about that!)

Danger, Warning Sign.

There I was a few weeks ago, sitting in the Barefoot Cafe with C, mellowing and enjoying that unique atmosphere we all know so well. I'd had a Malaysian beef curry, not one of my wisest choices it must be said, particularly when its only competitor had been the devilled prawns, those huge big gorgeous things that taste of gorgeousness. And prawn.

One has to try these new dishes to establish the liking for the older ones, living and learning and putting it down to experience. C was on her seventh or eighth glass or wine, she was taking it easy that afternoon, and I was hitting my third Diet Coke. Life doesn't get much more relaxed and balmy. In short, all was good.

The smooth sounds of something jazzy wafted their way over the Bose speakers as I watched tables of random NGOs schmoozing, groups of returning for the holiday Lankans laughing and sharing food and odd smatterings of lobster coloured tourists laden with Barefoot carrier bags take pictures of their surroundings.

Somewhere on the distant edges of the aural spectrum, if such a thing exists, was the faint rumble of traffic on the Galle Road. It's one of the things that fascinates me about the garden there. You know that it's only a stone's throw from the sheer chaos, smokiness, dustiness and madness of Galle Road, but that much pictured door at the front of the shop is in reality the door to another world, one of tranquility and calm.

It's why it's one of my all time favourite places in the world to hang, though I can't say that I've been to every place in the world, probably not even ninety per cent of them.

In the sort of passageway, the path bit that leads from the shop though the cafe to that archway into the car park, there had been a bit of a puddle so someone had placed one of those bright orange warning signs. You know the signs, they're like a triangle with one side missing and they say things like "Danger - Wet floor", that kind of thing.

As I sat and enjoyed the atmosphere a group from one of the tables started to get their act together to leave. They paid their bill, gathered their carrier bags and made to leave. They were white and European looking, I suspected German but didn't want to make a fuss.

One of the people, a twenty something woman, got up and walked back from her chair. Then BANG! She promptly walked into and tripped over the sign, that one that said "Danger" on it and warned people not to trip over.

I have to tell you, I found this so funny, even as I type this, at 7.25 on Sunday night, I'm actually laughing out aloud as I recall it. It's got to be irony hasn't it? A woman tripping over a warning sign. Again, though I mentioned the concept in my last post, Alanis should take notice.

The woman was okay, getting up and getting on her way. She hadn't noticed me laughing like a kid and C scowling at me like, well, a woman. She's probably forgotten the whole incident whereas I, being me, have devoted quite a dollop of thought to it.

I know Sri Lanka's not a very litigious society in the way the US is and the UK is becoming. You have a system where people fall down holes in the road, get electrocuted by bare wires and killed by drivers on zebra crossings and they're often classed as just things that happen and life goes on, though not for the people they happen to.

The UK is getting to be as bad as the US, with ambulance chasers and partly qualified solicitors making money out of things that really should be classed as everyday accidents. And in the meantime the US continues to lead us all by example, with fat people suing everyone because they won't stop eating and don't know where Europe is.

But, in a society that was a little bit more litigious than the motherland, what would happen if someone tripped over a warning sign?

Could they sue? Could they bring a case that there should have been a warning sign to warn of the warning sign? Then what if someone tripped over that sign? Imagine the madness that could ensue.

I wonder about this stuff. That's why I was laughing so much, not just because it was funny to watch.

Mapping The RD Life

Allow me to set my stall out. I'm a great fan of mindmaps. It's not that I've got all their albums, have seen them live a million times and fantasise about them doing things to me in the night. No, that's Thin Lizzy, Thin Lizzy and Jennifer Aniston and Britney (from her great Slave 4u days of course) respectively.

Though, truth be told, I'm getting increasingly worried about our Jen's looks as she moves into her forties. Some people are like wine and leather and age well, with the advancing years giving them a worn in and glamorous rugged look. I like to think of myself like that, it's such a shame other people don't.

Other people get older and we find their features that used to be cute and sexy becoming ugly and prominent. I worry about MR's moustache in this context and I fear for Jen, whose chin is taking on the proportions of a small continent, perhaps a large country. She's still one of the few women to hold a position high enough in the RD ranking to still have her own tag in my sexy moving tag cloud, so all is not lost.

In fact, having looked at the details, I can tell you that the only other women to currently have their own tag are T, (though it's called Dance in a Triangle), Darwin, G12, Lady Divine, The Missing Sandwich and the much missed Soixante neuf. Oh and of course Dinidu de Alwis has her own one too! There's a tag called "girls", not for random girls but specifically for A and K.

I reckon that I should probably create one for C, certainly after writing this I should. And Naz Sansoni deserves one for sheer number of mentions.

So I was telling you earlier about my love of mindmaps, which probably deserve a tag as well. I'm never going to be a world champion mindmapper, for I don't follow the strict rules as outlined by the esteemed Mr Buzan. I don't use colours, I don't use symbols, though being a drummer I do use cymbals (badoomtish!) and I put circles around each thing I write.

But then again the rules for mindmapping also tell us to develop our own style, so perhaps I'm following the rules to the letter.

I've used them for a few years now and in the past it was mostly as an approach to a project or a way of trying to squeeze a drop of creativity out of me. They're a brilliant way in which to kick something off when I have a load of facts swimming around in my head and don't know where to start or which thing to look at first, as they eliminate the need to think logically and progressively. You can chuck stuff out in whatever order it comes to mind, then order it later.

In parallel to that I've written journals of sorts for the also five or six years. At times they've been proper diaries, when I've spent big chunky KFC large Buiriyani size portions of time writing down my innermost thoughts and emotions, analysing everything to the, sometimes second degree, pretty deep for a man I think you'll agree.

At other times I've not written anything for weeks or months, breaking the diary silence with a quick entry then leaving it for another long spell. There's a certain cruel irony in the whole diary writing scenario that no one talks about; the fact that the more that goes on in your life the more there is to write about. But also, the more that goes on in your life the less time you have to write about it. Alanis could have used lines like that, instead of that shit about being late for your wedding.

Then, when things are quiet, we have loads of time to record our innermost thoughts and actions, we just don't have many.

This lack of time issue prompted me to begin drawing up quick little informative diary type mindmaps each time I visited the motherland. I'd take five or ten minutes to make a quick record of the things I'd done each day. Sometimes, when I was feeling rebellious, I'd leave it for a few days and do a mindmap to cover those few days. Easy peasy.

That new Arcade Fire song is on the radio, I think I'm going to buy the album, just thought I'd share that with you.

Now my latest idea is to do a quick mindmap of every day of my life. What I've been doing is taking a few minutes each morning to record the events of the previous day. The format of a mindmap allows me to go into as much or as little detail about each specific thing as I want to.

C, she who has not got her own tag, says that maybe this will split things down into too much details for me. She might be right. But, a couple of weeks into the venture, it seems to be giving me a slightly positively different view on life, undoubtedly a good thing.

Sometimes it empties my head. Yes, yes, I know there's not a lot to be emptied. But sometimes it's a way of getting negative things out of my head and onto paper, something that I also found happened with a longhand diary. It's also seems to be making me appreciate things more, I guess the act of writing something down makes this happen.

Also it's a nifty way in which I can look back and recall things that otherwise would have been forgotten. Like all bloggers I go through life thinking, often saying to fellows that I "must write a blog post about that", then promptly forgetting about it until the next time the situation crops up. Now I can look back on things and memories are triggered much more easily.

It's an experiment. I'll let you know how things progress and who knows, one day when I'm highly famous and dead, someone might find volumes of spidery RD mindmaps and make sense of the absolute piffle and tosh that goes on in my head. I'm serious there, I was glancing at from a few days ago and I'd written on it that I might be getting tired of Superdry stuff and moving over to Paul Smith. I'd be worried about me if I was a friend of mine.

Enjoy the GLF if you're there.

I'm not jealous, not one bit.

Fare Ye Well G12

Firstly I must apologise for what I reckon is going to be a bit of a girly sounding post.

Since I started writing this blog my relationship with Sri Lanka has grown and developed and I've become the proud owner of a huge pile of useful and useless knowledge. Change, the only thing that never changes, has taken place in ways I never imagined.

The best thing about this blogging thing? Friends. Not the series with Ross and Rachel and them, I mean the real thing. I've made some friendships that I hope will last for, well at least another week or two.

Blogging is quite a younger person's thing isn't it. The result of that is that I've met a lot of people, connected through blogging, who are a good deal younger than me. In fact we're talking about people whose parents are closer to my age than they are themselves.

It's a funny old thing, you connect through the medium of the net and the gap in age isn't necessarily apparent, certainly not a barrier. Meet a person like that in a bar or any other face to face environment and things are different.

One such example is G12. You might know her by her pen name; the Bohemian Gypsy. I first came across her penmanship a couple of years ago. I saw her blog and to be honest thought it was another one of those young twenty something ones, all edgy angsty writing and library pictures of girls in fields taken by a camera with vaseline smeared all over the lens.

But, like just about everyone, I got captured by the words. Yes, there are pictures of girls, babies, hearts and stars, just on the first page actually, but the writing is something else. If I wasn't dashing this post off in a hurry, if I were a proper writer, one who took time over their words, like G12 herself, then I'd trawl through her blog and link to her posts showing you the ones to read.

I'm lazy and I've got my tax return to sign and send off, so I just tell you to go through her blog if you have a spare few minutes. It's nice.

Where was I?

Oh yes. This G12 bird. Well over some time we got to know each other. It was the usual story; girl writes blog, old but intelligent and good looking bloke writes other blog. They comment on each others blogs, get friendly, meet and bloke has to tell girl that he won't sleep with her no matter what, that sort of thing.

But the Gyppo has honestly and seriously become one of my closest friends. I'm not really sure how or why, it's just happened. I see her every time I come to the motherland and I like it.

Then, some time ago she announced to the world that she was planning to leave Sri Lanka for that place, the one where they keep criminals and have barbecues.

Tomorrow she flies.

I feel happy and sad.

Sad because I'm one of the throng of people who'll miss her in Sri Lanka. It'll be a struggle but I reckon I'll still manage to have a good time there, just that there'll be something, or someone missing.

Happy because I admire G12 for what she's doing. It takes courage and balls to do a thing like this and I respect her for it. And I understand.

I value our friendship, I wish her the best of British luck and hope to see her soon in whichever part of the world we're in.

The best way to say bon voyage is to quote her own words, from her "about" page.

".....has only one ambition - which is to be happy for as much of her life as she possibly can. What's the point otherwise?....."

The Most Dangerous Place In The World

The internet's quite useful. It gives us access to oodles of information, brazilians of things that we'd otherwise have to go to a library or ask an intelligent person about. Yet sometimes, just now and again, we all like a bit of the old fashioned stuff, a bit of paper and ink, a touch of tactileness and a smatter of tangibility.

Which is why I often find myself reading a newspaper, a proper hard one, made from newspaper. One without clickable links, without a place where I can leave a comment and with proper adverts for the most dodgy of things, like husbands. And one of my occasional pleasures is to glance through one of the English language Sri Lankan dailies, most commonly while taking a poo. I don't meant stealing one, I mean doing one.

The Lankan papers are different to the British dailies, which are I'm sure different to all other ones too. The joys of Singlish ring out loudly from any English language Lankan daily and I love to read and listen to my brain saying the words in a Sri Lankan accent. The blogs, the Lankanosphere, Facebook and the virtual Sri Lankan press keep me informed in a what's the word on the street sort of way and the hard copy newspapers also keep me informed, just in a strangely different, what's the smell on the street sort of way.

It was a couple of weeks ago. C had gone off to Taiwan on a shoot and I pottered around Colombo doing my thing. At breakfast, over a quiet string hopper with chicken curry and parippu, I opened The Island. I perused the articles and poured through the first fifteen or so pages on how great the government is and how evil the west is. Then I came to a page called "Provincial News" and glanced at a picture.

This wasn't just any picture. No, it was a crap one, one of those that you peer at through squinting eyes, to try to figure out what the hell it's all about. So I did exactly that, I peered and tried to figure out what the hell it was all about. It seemed to show a road. There was a clock tower in the background, some random pedestrians and some even more random vehicles.

I like the way many Lankan newspapers practice the art of placing a caption so that it's hard to spot, it makes browsing a paper far more adventurous and exciting than in other parts of the world. When I found one it told me that it was a road in Horana and that the locals are clamouring to get their zebra crossing, the one that had disappeared from the aforementioned point in the road, to be reinstated. Apparently the lack of crossing was making the act of crossing the road a dangerous one. I smirked, even though I'd given up smirking a long time ago.

Above this was another small article, this time telling the sad story of a driver appearing in court after killing a person on a zebra crossing. The driver's defence was that he had been approaching the crossing and, on seeing a pedestrian in front of him on the crossing, had panicked and pressed the accelerator instead of the brake, killing the poor pedestrian.

Now the way it works in the UK and in many other countries is that a zebra crossing is sacresant. If a person is on one then they have right of way, but more than that, if a person is waiting to cross it's usually considered bad form if a driver doesn't stop and let them go. It's so extreme here in England that, should a person be on one and a car coming in the other direction fails to stop, there might even be a raised voice or an angry shrug, serious stuff for Brits.

If a war broke out within the UK people could flee to safety in churches and other holy places but they could also camp out on zebra crossings with the knowledge that they're safe as can be. Unless of course the war was against Sri Lanka.

I read and reread the article. Yes it did say what I thought it said; that a driver had got flustered and confused and hit the wrong pedal. Perhaps it's the yellow stripes that causes this. Whoever heard of a yellow and black zebra anyway?

I remember back in the day when I was married. I used to have nightmares about the girls and their mother attempting to cross on a Lankan zebra crossing and expecting the traffic to stop for them, perhaps making the potentially fatal mistake of expecting one car to slow down while it was overtaking another car on a crossing, just in case there was someone attempting to make their way across the road.

I think I used the word "cross" or "crossing" way too many times in that sentence. These things make me very cross. And predictable.

And something that never ceases to amaze me is the code of conduct on a Lankan pedestrian crossing. People tread precariously, there's no marching with confidence and the knowledge that vehicles are going to stop as if you're Superman pointing a laser beam at them. That dance takes place, the one we're all familiar with. There's posturing and posing and all sorts of footwork that's only usually seen in the dancing at Jazz Unlimited when that Speldewinde fellow's doing his thing.

Then, when all else fails, when there's no way left to solve the situation, there's a last resort, a definitive way in which to get the vehicle to stop. It's when the pedestrian puts his or her hand out. You know the thing; the arm at waist height with the hand stuck out at about ninety degrees and the very slightest and most imperceptible to all but a Sri Lankan eye of finger movements. That, my friends, makes any traffic stop immediately. Unless the driver gets flustered.

I glanced again at the article about the residents of Horana wanting their crossing back, then at the piece about the driver pressing the wrong pedal. Yes, I thought. They're mad.

A Sri Lankan zebra crossing has to be the most dangerous place in the world.

Jim

Sometimes I do things. And I do them impulsively. I think I'm manly in that way. I like shopping, I admit. But I shop like a man, contrary to what C reckons.

Mens' shopping is simple and uncomplicated. Women would probably say that that is like men, but we know the truth. We may seem simple and uncomplicated on the surface but, delve a bit deeper than that, and you'll find that worrying about how to adjust your balls is actually pretty taxing.

There are two types of men; those who get caught ogling womens' breasts and get a pervy reputation and those who don't get caught. Any man will tell you that it's not easy to keep oneself in the second group, let alone to work your way into it in the first place.

But, to go back to the shopping thing, we men look at a thing in a shop, perhaps even trying it on. Then we have some very basic tick boxes to decide if we buy it.

Does it fit? Yes or no. Does it look good? Yes or no. Does it make me hold my stomach in or can I relax in it? Yes or no.

And then, depending on which boxes we have ticked, we buy or don't buy. It really is that simple. Some fellows, I'm told, go further and ask themselves whether they need the thing or not. I don't really subscribe to that mindset. Unless I really need something of course.

Womens' shopping is an entirely different matter. Tick boxes, my arse. There are thousands of tick boxes to be applied before a decision is made, but then they move onto feelings and random fuzzy logic things that are wholly alien to the male psyche. I suppose, when I say "tick boxes, my arse" it's actually quite appropriate, for the "does my bum look big in this?" issue always looms large.

I kid you not here, I was with C the other day in Paradise Road and she was looking at sarongs. She was leaving for Taiwan that evening and wanted to buy a sarong as a present for the cameraman, or director of photography as they're called, on her crew. She held it up to examine the thing and within about two nanoseconds I'd decided that I'd buy it for myself, let alone for someone else.

I had to hold it against me, as apparently he was about similar size, I had to twirl, then she asked if I thought the colours would match his complexion. It was a sarong for fuck's sake, we men don't do complexions, we just buy things in colours we like. Eventually she bought it, after taking about five minutes, roughly thirty times the time a man would take, to make the decision.

At one point I thought, in my naivety, that she was actually buying a surprise birthday present for me and that was why it took so long. I was wrong. It really was a present for the cameraman.

Enough about that, there was something else I wanted to tell you about.

There I was on Friday, thinking that I probably should join a gym of some sort. Most people probably don't think about this stuff at this time of the year but I'm different to the herd. I did a little bit of googling, looked at a couple of gyms and then, before you could say "does my bum look big in this?" I was typing in my bank card details to enrol for six weeks trial membership (inc three personal training sessions!) at a local place.

Then there was a wait involved. It was the wait for one of the team to call me to arrange my first personal training session.

Now I know you, who may well know me in person, will be a bit surprised at this gym thing. My reputation as a fellow with a toned and rather chiselled physique goes before me. But, underneath this shallow exterior of good looks and muscular manliness, lurks a body just like any other man's, perhaps even as bad as David Blacker's, and I want to tone it up a tad.

I was impatient. The online thing told me that I'd get a call within forty eight hours, so naturally when I hadn't received one within about an hour I called them myself. A very friendly chap called Dominic talked to me quite nicely.

Men will back me on this. When you're faced with a chat with a fellow about going to the gym and things, you have to pretend that your level of knowledge is quite high. I don't know why, it doesn't help us in any way, but to show ignorance, to confess to the bloke that the last time I went to a gym was probably before he was born, is not good.

So we went through the conversation with me doing my best to sound as blase as I could, as though I more or less lived in a gym and was merely trying out a new one, until it got to the point when he asked me what I want to achieve.

"Well, you know, just to tone up a bit and lose a bit of body fat I guess". I responded. It was probably an answer he'd never heard before.

"Okay, that's fine, I'll send you a text confirming the appointment and the fitness consultant will see you then."

"Dominic that's great thanks, but can I ask you something?" said I.

"Erm what exactly should I wear to this appointment?"

This totally blew my cover as an experienced gym user, but it was necessary. You see I knew that this was going to be some kind of session where a chap, probably blonde and looking like he's just narrowly failed an audition for a boy band, measures me, weighs me, makes me try to do a sit up and tries to find out how flexible I am. At that point I'll be sorely tempted to crack my joke about not being able to make Wednesdays, but am unsure if I would.

But I really didn't know if I should turn up in civvies, risking the shame of being asked to change into kit I don't have, or whether I arrive in shorts and lycra, only to be laughed at as I wouldn't actually be doing anything physical that time.

Dominic was good though.

"Oh just wear your normal gym kit." he responded, with a total lack of understanding about how confusing those words actually were.

"Sure" I said, chuckling with him at my stupidity.

"Normal gym kit, normal fucking gym kit!!?" I thought to myself. What the hell is that?

My mind started at floor level. Trainers? Okay, I own more pairs of trainers than the average kid who loves Blink 41 or Sum 182, but none of those are meant for physical exercise. I'd have to see if I could get away with one pair, or buy a new pair at the weekend. But I didn't want to run the risk of looking like Keith Richards doing his first gym session and being surprised that he wasn't allowed to smoke.

Socks? Ah yes. Somewhere I have a pair of white sporty looking socks, on that front I'd be okay.

Shorts? Again I own a pair of proper Adidas sports shorts. Finding them, figuring out if they still fit and dealing with the fact that they're older than some of the younger Greek Gods would be another matter.

And the rest. What T shirt do I wear? I don't know if I should go for a trendy one or perhaps an old and knackered one, what's the procedure here?

The most important question is about the bag. What sort of thing shall I take?

I figure that I'll have to buy one of those trendy retro style sports bags very soon. You know the ones that are remakes of the type we used to use for school, made from the cheapest nylon and so small that you can't get much in them. Well they're all the rage in these parts at the moment.

But what to use for the first few sessions?

I don't think a manbag will be suitable. The only options I have are a hefty looking rucksack with more compartments and pockets than a train full of clothing salesmen or a dodgy looking flimsy thing that I bought some time ago to carry my swimming trunks in.

I'll probably use the swimming trunk bag, if it doesn't smell too much.

Either way, this evening at seven of the clock I'll be going through my first personal fitness review. Wish me luck, I have a feeling I'll need it.

Happy Monday all.

Keep Calm And Carry On

So I'm back and this post comes to you from the familiar environs of my desk and my office. Familiar to me that is, not you.

I got in early yesterday morning and had most of Sunday to unpack and get settled, ready for another Monday, another week and another month. My Barefoot journal is full to the brim, not that journals actually have brims, with mind maps of my adventures, my thoughts and my experiences in the motherland in the last two weeks. From meeting a particular person who was just the most amazing dancer to getting thoroughly pissed off by the way in which I feel much of the Lankan tourism industry is shamelessly raping the average tourist, it's all there.

Some of it I'll share with you in the days and weeks to come, some I'll keep to myself and only talk to friends about, for fear of the old "he's not a true Sri Lankan if he's that critical" thing that we know and love.

Of course I'm not a one hundred per cent true Sri Lankan either. I live here in London and I want to. Coming back here this time I felt as if I was leaving one home; the one of madness, chaos, corruption and knowing someone and arriving at another home; the one of order, systems, predictability and middleness.

What do I mean by "middleness"? I mean that in Sri Lanka, if you know the right person or have the right connections, you can get things done, often very quickly, more quickly than here in the UK. But, if you don't have the connections, you join the queue. And it's a very slow and cumbersome queue.

Here in Blighty knowing a person rarely makes a difference. Most of us get a middleness in the service we receive regardless of who we are. We get worse than the man in Lanka who knows someone but, as a default, we also get better than that chap in the queue.

This time I quite liked returning to that middleness, feeling a bit worn down by some of the ways in which I was treated by my hotel and surroundings in Sri Lanka. Such is life and I also feel immensely privileged that I'm one of the many with my heritage in Serendib and that I'm increasingly at home there.

It's also funny to see people complaining about the weather there. Here I sit and it's two and a half degrees outside. I'm quite lucky in that my body is doing that thing, you know the thing where being in a tropical country is like having a hot bath and your body retains the heat, so I'm feeling okay. But it's cold and I'd swap some of this dreary West London coldness for some of your much better quality Colombo coldness at the drop of a hat. Or a scarf even.

SL2G? Did I tell you about that?

We've got a really great photo exhibition thing, called "Talking Pictures - Connecting With Sri Lanka". It's on the 8th February at the East Gallery in Brick Lane and it promises to be a lively and rather brilliant evening of stimulating discussion around a set of photographs centred around our connections with Sri Lanka. Get in touch if you'd like to know more, or find SL2G on Facebook.

I must go now. I've got songs to learn, a new chap starting today and jetlag to be getting on with too.

Another Year Older

I write this at 9.15 AM, with an open window and the Colombo heat only feet away. Why am I up at this ungodly hour when I'm on holiday, I hear you ask.

Well C's gone off to Taiwan on a shoot so I'm left here to mooch around on my own, well as much as a man can be alone in this city, and I'm determined that I squeeze the maximum enjoyment out of the remaining three days of my time here.

I'm also slightly hungover, something I blame entirely on Dominic Sansoni. Again.

I strolled over to the Colombo pub quiz last night and found not many people that I know. So, you know me, quiet and unassuming as ever, I took a pew and began to watch the proceedings quietly. One beer later I found myself in a van being driven by the famous photographer and heading to the DBU. The rest I promise to tell you about in another post.

There are several things I want to get done in the coming days, things that C would probably scowl at if she were here (she scowls a lot, particularly when she's with me for some reason) and it's also, though please keep it quiet, my birthday.

I can't quite believe it, not the "it's my birthday" part, for that seems to happen just about every year these days, but the fact that I've hit the grand old age of forty five. It just doesn't seem right.

Besides I spent about ten months thinking I was actually forty three, until C told me that I'd passed that one last January. That was a major bummer, it's only old people who forget how old they are, so how could it happen to me?

Forty fucking five!!! But I wear trendy clothes and play in bands. I use hair product, though I seem to be getting through less of it each month. I listen to Muse, though am yet to get into Arcade Fire. I've got a phone that does far more than just call and text, though I have to get my kids to explain most of it. I wear Converse (s) and Paul Smith and I know the difference between Superdry clothing and the generic fake retro Japanese things that all the shops are churning out these days.

Yet the fact remains. My passport tells me I'm forty five. My kids refuse to listen to or watch the bands I'm in. I still can't figure out how to use most of the things on my phone and I can do mental arithmetic. I must be forty five.

I guess I should embrace it. I'll be off to meet a cousin for lunch today, then might have some beers this evening. If you want to come feel free to join.

Thirty First Night

Hello Reader,

It seems fitting and appropriate, though a good Thesaurus will probably tell you that the two words have the same meaning, that I write the last post of the noughties while sitting in the garden cafe at Barefoot. It's almost 2PM and the place is buzzing with people; a wealthy mix of tourists and Sri Lankans who have returned for the festive season. There is of course the traditional white bloke in a sarong, going through the whole trying to look cool and relaxed whilst desperately hoping it stays up thing.

I've been doing all sorts of things. I had my first ever trip to the Dutch Burgher Union the other day, for a wedding reception. It was a blast, with C putting in a rare appearance in a rather short and head turning dress. Dominic Sansoni, who more or less runs the DBU singlehandedly, was startled by the sight of C's legs so much that he was thinking of changing the constitution to include a minimum dress length for women.

The morning event saw yours truly cut a rather elegant dash in a very British suit and tie. I felt like a twat in the heat, every sensible chap wore a loose fitting shirt and nice airy trousers while I roasted so much that at one point I nearly loosened my tie and undid the top button. I maintained my dignity though, as I felt as if I was representing the Brits and needed to show some stiff upper lip stuff.

It's my first time ever in Sri Lanka during the Christmas season and I'm observing and absorbing as much of the detail as I can. I'm amazed at the heaviness of the decorations everywhere, that certain lack of subtlety looms large in the Sri Lankan approach to Christmas trees and lights. The outside of my hotel, the one on the lake, looks like the result of a traffic accident involving the Hi!! magazine graphics designer and a huge truck on its way out of the white light bulb factory.

The buzz around what people are going to do tonight is tangible and mounting. Every hotel and venue is getting ready, putting up stages and decorations and getting staff and fixtures in place for the big night. I've wanted to experience a 31st night here for years and finally get to do it. Mine and C's choice is to head over to this thing at Park Street Mews. It's a bash with bands, DJs, dinner, breakfast and a good crowd of friends, so should be fun with a capital g.

There are more stories to tell, particularly the tale of Java and the missing crisps, but time has got the better of me and I'll leave you with wishes for a good New Year, whatever you're doing in whichever country.

Somewhere in Kingston there's a sixteen year old having a few friends round to her Dad's apartment while he holidays in Sri Lanka. You've got to wish that Dad a lot of luck haven't you!!

See you in the next decade.

You Scumbags!

You maggots.

You cheap lousy faggots.

Happy Christmas to everyone who's read, commented and been a part of the great thing that is the Lankanosphere.

I wish you peace, prosperity, love and everything you wish for yourself and your loved ones.

See you in London or Lanka.

RD x

I'm Dreaming Of A Grey Christmas

Two things I've had enough of; snow and the American Government, neither of which it seems I can do anything about.

There's good stuff to do with snow, I admit. Snowball fights, tobogganing and that whole Christmassy feeling. And that rather magical atmosphere, the way everything sounds muffled and more peaceful than ever.

On Saturday I walked into Kingston. It sounds a bit braver than it is, for I do actually pretty much live in the middle of Kingston anyhow. I spent a couple of minutes fighting bravely through a blizzard, feeling like Scott or even Ralph Fiennes as I tucked myself into the folds of my parka and let my almost brand new Timberlands do the walking.

Then, when I got to the Bridge, I saw that every car approaching it was getting stuck, unable to get the traction to climb the smallest of slopes and get onto the bridge. Without exception every single car was slipping, sliding and wheelspinning as they went nowhere.

The result? That Great British gung ho spirit poured out of passers by by the gallon. Every single one of us stopped and helped push a few cars before we went on our way. It's weird how us Brits do that in times of need. We, a term I'm hesitant about using, can be cold, unfriendly and downright miserable to each other for most of the time. But, give us a time of need, and we're the friendliest and most warm and helpful people around.

I pushed one car to freedom, along with about two or three other strangers. Then I moved along to the next car and did the same. Both drivers shouted their thanks and tooted their horns as they went on their way.

As the third car loomed in my vision I felt a bit uneasy. There was a whole queue of cars coming, all of which would suffer the same predicament. What was I to do? I might have spent the weekend pushing them. The Christmas shopping would have had to wait, none of the drivers would even have known that I'd been pushing cars for hours. So I legged it after just the two, feeling as though I'd done my good deed times two, so things were okay.

Driving into work on Monday morning was more treacherous and risky, more hazardous and filled with heart stopping moments than the last time I went to the Barefoot Colombo Pub Quiz. At one point my car told me, in its silent German tones, that the outside temperature was minus 9.5 degrees. Mentale!

Then there's the flights. One of my girls at work failed to fly to her home town of Prague because of the disruption, though she's now hoping to go on Thursday. I've been checking the Sri Lankan Airlines website regularly as I'm booked to depart on Boxing Day. Occasional snow showers, little bursts of the stuff have made me moan and groan and hope like buggery that it turns into grey and dull rain, the very grey and dull rain that I hate so much at any other time.

I can't wait to be destined for Serendib. To feel the plane take off and know that I'm on my way. Boarding and even being in my seat won't be enough. The radio waves are bounding with stories of people who've boarded then sat around for hours on end only to be told they have to go back into the airport and wait, or worse still sent home.

The only question is a book dilemma facing me. I've started reading Chinaman and have been forced to read that so old fashioned type of book, the sort that is printed on paper, with ink and whatnot, for it's not available on the Kindle. It took me a while I must admit. I'd thought, after reading and hearing so much about it, that it would grab me within the first forty two, maybe even forty, words. It just didn't, yet I ploughed on.

Then at about the one hundred page mark, it captured me. As I write this I'm waiting to rush home and find out what Wije has been up to for the last few hours and exactly where the story's going to lead us. The characters, the language and the Sri Lankan nuances, some of which I even understand, have got me spellbound.

The dilemma is about whether to take the book with me on the flight or to just take the Kindle and read one or some of the many others I'm currently involved with. It seems wrong to have an e book reader but to then carry a paperback with me, a hefty one at that.

Vut too doo?

Lately In The Lankanosphere

Yes, it's back. It's been a long time since the last "lately" post in these parts, mostly because there just hasn't been much in the Lankan blogosphere that's caught my reading eye. Most of my regular reads have gone quiet or now prefer to splash out quick 140 character tweets or Facebook status updates, usually saying how much they hate Facebook's latest look, instead of sitting down and putting the effort in to write sntces + wrds tht arnt abbrvted.

Many of these former bloggers are so outrightly selfish that they concentrate on their own lives, never thinking about the enjoyment of us, their readers. And Kottu has morphed into more of an aggregator than it ever used to be. Say what you like about fixing the most read lists but there used to be a sense of interaction and community on Kottu that's no longer there. It's become like a band that have split up but get back together now and again to do a tour just for the money.

And then this week there was a shift in the Earth's vibrations, a sneeze in the Lankanosphere and my interest was captured.

First Java Jones whacked one out. Then he wrote a post. There are many blogging youngsters who are unaware of the legend that is Java Jones, of his widespread influence among many of us, not to mention that he's a cat only matched in coolness by TC. Or Huggy Bear, but he's not a cat. As a young up and coming blogger all those years ago I'd read Java's posts and wish I could write with his fluidity and sheer fucking sense of craziness. They tell me that copious amount of drug taking helps with this.

These days JJ has semi retired and spends most of his time living in the hill country. He blogs only occasionally and spends the majority of his time practicing the vuvuzela. He's one of only a handful of professional vuvuzela players in the world and is a first call session player for most of the world's top gigs. He'll deny it though, he's humble and bashful like that. You thought it was a saxaphone at the beginning of Gerry Rafferty's Baker Street didn't you? Well it's not, it's JJ, doing his vuvuzela thing.

His post is only a brief one, on his thoughts on the Wikileaks cable saga, but worth its weight in gold and it got my attention immediately. I urge you to check it out and comment demanding that he writes more.

Then Dramaqueen, usually as elusive as a huge big invisible and soundless monster who's decided to have a game of hide and seek, decided to spurt out not just one, but four posts, all in one day. Somewhere in there lurks a joke about four poster beds. I wish I was wittier, as you do probably. About me I mean, not about you. You probably think you're quite funny as it is.

The thing about DQ is that she's funny, in a slightly animal loving and sensitive way. I can imagine that an evening with her, involving drinking games and farting would be incredibly good fun, until the point that an innocent fellow cracked a joke about killing cats or breeding Christmas trees for commercial reasons. Then all hell would break loose and the farting would stop.

Grab yourself a few minutes and read her posts, my favourite is this one, the story of her first full body massage. (insert smutty joke here......) Any girl who can write about farting gets my vote every time.

DD also came out with a quickie. His blog isn't one I find easy on the eye, what with its various adverts blaring out at full volume all the time, but I'm always keen to read his perusings. The latest one is entitled the £600 haircut and it's about, well a £600 haircut. At first glance I saw the opening picture of him and assumed that he was showing us the "before the haircut" situation.

"Not a problem" I thought, a decent hairdresser should be able to tidy up that mess and do great things with it. I read on and, without giving too much away, I'll only say that I hope DD got a receipt!

Also catching the RD eye lately has been this new blog called I am. I've mentioned it before but it deserves another shout. It's an eye and earcatching combination of images and narrative, all about Sri Lanka's regional identities, told through the eyes of some highly thought provoking characters.

Dominic Sansoni himself told me the other day that it's much, much harder than it appears to put images and sound together and come up with something so special. I noticed that he was talking to his mouth was actually making the movements for the word before the one I was hearing. So it must be true then. Check it out and see for yourself.

Groundviews has gone to the shops and got itself a sexy new look for the festive season. I must admit that I can't figure out if the logo is new or if it's always been there, but I wonder if Sanjana, at the merest hint of a rights violation, rushes into a phone box, does a spin and emerges with a T shirt with the GV logo on, some extra fast slippers and his pants on the outside. Actually, as I think on it I realise that's how he was dressed last time I met him anyway. Presumably he must have been rushing to an emergency.

This post by Michael Meyler tells us Suddhas about the word "goday". I just wish I was able to pronounce it correctly without you guys looking puzzled and then laughing at me once you realise what I'm attempting to say. The esteemed Mr Meyler tells us that the nearest word to "goday" in contemporary English s the word "naff".

With the utmost respect to him I disagree. I reckon it's "chav" or "chavvy". Just ask the Auf, he'll back me on this. And talking of the Auf I've heard it on good authority that there may be a little bit of Auf love in the air. I won't tell you who's involved but let's just say that myself and Pseudorandom are currently busily writing our speeches.

The Indi.ca channel has been particularly busy of late. He points out in this post that the noughties is almost over. The fact had escaped me until I read it. Bloody hell, that's another decade gone. In my life it's fair to say that it was a pretty big one, how was it for you?

Rajaratarala, him with all the As, published this post, all about eggs, chickens and the possibility of them being imported for the festive season. Clearly it's a chicken egg situation. That's all I have to say on the matter.

That's pretty much it for now. If you want more you know where to look. It's ever so slightly awash with posts on how to make your blog look like a Christmas tree, film reviews or out of focus pictures taken on someone's mobile of Murali dancing at a party but, once you filter through all of that stuff, there are some gems to be found.

As they say in France, this isn't goodbye, just bonjour.

RD

More On Wikileaks

This whole Wikileaks thing is good for us bloggers isn't it?

Let's face it, when the world ticks along nicely, when life is treating everyone well, something that happens infrequently I'll grant you, there's fuck all for us to blog about. Wikileaks, or the recent cablegate thing has given us all endless possibilities, with the promise of even more to come for Julian knows how long.

And, while we're on the subject, isn't it annoying that anything big these days gets the word "gate" bunged on the end of it. I hope there isn't some big event to do with Bill Gates in the future or the copywriters will have a field day.

The stories of espionage, of bumbling British Princes who should really keep their mouth shut, of Politicians exchanging favours for votes and votes for favours are seriously interesting and will almost definitely change the way many view the world of international relations.

But so far there's been one story, and one story alone, that has caught the RD imagination and is trapped, like a fart in a colander, in my head.

It's about Ahmad Zia Massoud the former Afghan vice President. You've probably heard it anyhow but it's about the fact that, in 2009, when visiting the UAE, he was caught carrying $52 million in cash. The fuss in the media relates to the probability that he was money laundering and that US and UAE officials stopped him then let him go with his cash and no explanation of where it came from.

I guess it's bad, bad that he was let off and all. But the simple fact is that this chap was carrying $52,000,000 in CASH, yes CASH. I mean how does a chap actually do that?

I've put quite a lot of thought into this, even doing a mind map which you can see here in front of me. When I began to think about it I couldn't comprehend $52 mill in cash. Would it be a suitcase full of sponds or a huge fleet of suitcases? Perhaps it would be a small bag containing a mere 52 of those 1 million dollar notes.

And how exactly does a chap go about carrying this on a flight? If it was just the one big bag I suppose old Ahmad would have bought himself a really good one, like one of the medium range Samsonites or perhaps even some top of the range Balrin Parris (sic) ones from the Pettah. If he could afford it of course. I've been wanting to write a sentence with (sic) in it for quite some time you know.

He would have faced the issue all of us have to face at times. Do you buy a hard case, giving more sturdiness, security and protection but also more weight, or a soft one, with less of everything including weight?

Would he have got one with a combination lock or a proper padlock with a key. When carrying around $52 million I think a combination lock is probably better and it's a good idea to use a number that no one will think of, like one of his kids' birthdays or perhaps his wife's. Had he gone for a soft case then I'm told anyone can open one by poking the zip with a biro. He'd have to hope none of the baggage handlers knew that cunning trick.

Then, once the luggage choice is sorted out, how would he have checked it in? It's probably fair to assume he went business or maybe even first class but it must have still been a nervewracking episode to check it in and watch it disappear along the belt at the desk. As you probably know I lost a case once when I went to Barcelona so I know how it feels.

My case only contained pants (Odel ones) and some clothes. I can only imagine the hassle in trying to fill out the lost bag form when you have to write "$52 million in cold hard dodgy cash" in the appropriate box. I hope Ahmad hadn't put his pants in the same bag as the cash. I had to wear the same pants for two days in a row.

All blokes know that it's perfectly normal and acceptable to wear pants for several days in a row when there's no woman around, but I was with C at the time so had to pretend it was something unusual, making that face as if I hated doing it. Had I also lost $52 million at the time I reckon things could have been a lot worse.

All the permutations and comedic possibilities were driving me mad so I did some googling and wikipediaing.

I found out that there has never been a $1 million dollar note that has been legal tender. Though there were some $100,000 notes that are not legal tender anymore, the highest in circulation now is the $100 note.

So old Ahmad would have had to use $100 bills and the weight of one of these is about 1 gramme. Therefore $52 million would have weighed about 520 Kg. That's a fair bit of weight and I reckon, allowing for 20 kg a suitcase, it would have meant 26 suitcases. Let's round things up a bit and say that he may have taken 25-30 suitcases.

Well that's a lot of excess luggage, even taking into account the extra baggage allowance (about 10kg) you get on business class.

It's all been kept quiet, even on Wikileaks.

I don't think we should accept it.

I demand to know who paid his excess luggage bill. I bet you it was the Americans.

Monday Invalidation

I saw this and thought of you.

Any musos out there, but also normal people, will see this and think of many they know.





Enjoy your Monday morning. It's bound to be a snowy / icy / rainy / hot / cold one.

Wikileaks And The Lankanosphere

I'm one of millions who have been captured and enthralled by this Wikileaks business. The unspoken question on the edge of everyone's lips sounds a bit like:

"Cables? I thought they went out years ago!"

Because, in this high tech iEverything age, who the hell, apart from electricians, uses cables? I really didn't even know they still exist. My parents used to use them, mostly when someone had died, and frankly even I'm pretty old compared to most of my readers.

Everything these days is secure, password and PIN number protected. To penetrate a careful person's email account you need the advanced computer skills of Harry Potter after he's been to some evening classes on hacking, or a fourteen year old Nigerian fraudster.

The Americans chose cables to communicate these highly sensitive bits of information. Surely they weren't surprised when something sprang a leak?

They were, and don't call me Shirley, with my thanks to Leslie Nielsen.

The reaction of the Sri Lankan blogosphere has been surprisingly subdued. I don't know why this is the case, perhaps as more leaks specifically related to Lanka are released the momentum will increase or maybe people just aren't interested.

There have been three main blogs and a few posts that have caught my eye.

First, and undoubtedly foremost, there's Groundviews with this fantastic precis of the situation to date. It's got even more graphs, diagrams and flashy charts than a piece of homework submitted by my fourteen year old daughter and it explains things pretty clearly and succinctly. There are links galore and it tells you everything you need to know, everything if you're me that is.

The only thing it's missing is a good pie chart. Perhaps Sanjana might want to use the one I've shown below, the only pie chart ever worth using IMHO. By the way, the invention of the pie chart is often credited to Florence Nightingale, her of Florence and the Machine. She didn't invent it, sorry about that.

Moving on we've got Sittingnut on Lanka Libertarian with his take on things. It's his first post for months and it's good to have him back and active in the Lankanosphere. His approach demonstrates his usual degree of level headedness and wisdom with his unparalleled ability to see things from the perspective of a large bird with a very long neck.

He asks "Who will be most embarrassed in Sri Lanka when these cables come to light", something I think is an interesting question. Sadly I think the answer, at least where Sri Lanka is concerned, is a resounding "no one", as so many things are so shameless there anyhow.

In the updated section of Sittingnut's post he reports on the Commonwealth turning down Sri Lanka's offer to host the next Commonwealth Heads of Government Meeting because of "concerns about lending international credibility to the Government's actions".

Sittingnut's response to this is to ask who cares about the commonwealth anyway. This response is akin to a child who, on being told he can't join in a game with his friends because they think he might have cheated last time, retorts by saying he never wanted to play anyhow. He then goes and plays with a bunch of Chinese kids and......

Lastly we come to Indi with his views on the matter at hand. He's given Wikileaks quite a chunk of attention with three posts at the time of writing.

This one informs us that Wikileaks has 3166 documents to be released on Sri Lanka. They'll be released in forthcoming months so we don't yet know what secrets they contain. Here in the UK I expect their release will be carefully planned around the X Factor and Cheryl Cole's scheduled appearances, possibly synchronised with her clothing.

Indi's first post about the thing starts off by showing us a picture of Julian Assange, the Wikileaks' founder, doing a hand shadow puppet thing. He's evidently not very good at it, but I reckon he'll attain fame in other ways.

Indi uses this post as a platform to argue that the over 100,000 deaths in Iraq revealed by Wikipedia recently are far more than alleged in Sri Lanka and that the US has lost much of the trust from the rest of the world because of this. It's undoubtedly a valid view, with one major flaw.

There isn't a massive body of people in the West saying that the actions of the US, the UK and whoever else are correct and justified and that it's just little old Sri Lanka who have done wrong. No, there's huge public opinion here in the UK that the invasion of Iraq was wrong, that the public was misled and that the troops should withdraw. People here are allowed to say these things quite freely too.

His post here demonstrates the Indi thinks it's a positive thing that Julian Assange and Wikileaks exist, I'm inclined to agree with him.

Indi has a lot more readable stuff on his blog about the whole Wikileaks saga, check it out.

Finally I must tell you what I think. I guess it would be a cop out to criticise others without revealing my thoughts.

The first thing that struck me, on reading Indi's and Sittingnut's opinions was that they shared a view, perhaps a first. They both demonstrate a lack of consistency. They both believe that it's okay for these secrets about the US Government to be revealed, thereby showing us its real face and giving us a true picture. Yet they both think that it's perfectly acceptable for Sri Lanka to keep certain things secret as it's in the interests of national security.

Indi says this

"Their logic for dialling back these leaks works on a local level in the same way that the white flag story works in Sri Lanka. These are our secrets and we keep them to protect our country."

Sittingnut tells us

"It appears that american state is run by arrogant hypocrites who care nothing for ethics and morality when they want to dominate others..."

My stance is that Sittingnut's take on the US is, or maybe was, correct. But, if it's good that these things are revealed, then it should be good if all atrocities are revealed in all countries.

Fundamentally I feel it's a good positive thing that this information has been made public. I care not one iota for the arguments about patriotism, national security etc. I think that, if the Americans, Brits and whomever else have behaved this cynically then they deserve what they get.

But I wonder on the wisdom of Wikileaks in revealing all of this. There are cases when people have been named, people who have been motivated to pass on information to the Americans for genuinely good reasons, and some of them may now be in very real danger.

In the longer term this may discourage others from coming forward to people in not just American but all diplomatic circles, that can't be good.

The whole thing makes the Americans look cynical and arrogant. If I had a friend who was an American diplomat right now I'd be wondering if he really was my friend and whether I could trust him. It's a stroke of luck that I have no friends in these circles. Apart from Condoleezza and Hillary that is.

In the UK, at least at the time of writing, our main concerns have been the plainly stupid and bigoted views of Prince Andrew, as well as his very dodgy choices on when to air them. Most of us think he's an idiot anyway. I'm sure there'll be more to come though.

I leave you with the last word quoted from Groundviews, in itself a quote from Kusal Perera:

“The first is that, in Sri Lanka, it would never be possible for any one to play “Julian Assange” and dare face an open media briefing in Colombo, to justify his or her claims on war crimes and torture. Right or wrong, excessive or not, that “democracy” is nowhere within the shores of Sri Lanka and would not be, for many decades to come. There is also no possibility of any lawyer, any public litigant, requesting Courts to “order” relevant authorities to begin investigations into allegations of crimes committed during war, as in Britain. Relevance if any on such democratic practices, is almost naught.” – From WikiLeaks to WikiLanka: War Is Definitely Savage Though “Accusations” Differ, Kusal Perera

A One Poo Post.

Hello.

So here I am, back in London after my briefest trip so far to the motherland. It's Wednesday morning as I write this, I arrived back at around nine PM last night after landing over your way on Friday afternoon.

Truth be told I feel just that little bit dazed.

Of course there are lots of bits and pieces to tell you. Stories of colour, light, sound and smell. Theories on the body and heat, on the arrogance of SriLankan aircrew and how some friends left me to the wolves, well a wolf, well a wolfess actually. There's also an instructional story about the best way to steal a laptop from a Gypsy.

They're all noted in my new and swishy Barefoot notebook, one of those with lines drawn by a person with a crap ruler. Funny really that, a crap ruler could be a device to draw straight lines that doesn't work well or it could be person running a country badly. Or I guess it could be a fellow in charge of a crap table.

This is a bit of a poo post though, something that has been lacking around the Lankanosphere of late.

My itinerary was set as follows; land in CMB lateish on Friday afternoon, spend three days mooching around, doing that romantic thing that I'm so renowned for. This was with C, not just with random women that I encountered. Then leave on Tuesday morning, get back in London in the evening and go back to work on Wednesday morning.

By Saturday morning all was going well. All except one thing; I hadn't dropped a log since before I left London on Thursday. And neither had I done a poo. As you'll be aware this isn't wholly unusual for me. I can sometimes go for three or more days without opening the back gates and am often approached by camels seeking advice on how to do it.

But I began to wonder if it was at all possible that I could manage a whole sojourn to Sri Lanka, albeit a brief one, without the turtle poking its head out at all.

It was going to be a challenge. After some thought I decided that I was the man for the job and accepted it.

However, there was a condition and had to outline it to myself. It was to do with food, that all important aspect of any trip to Sri Lanka. It was all well and good trying to leave the country without pooing but it had to be done without cutting back on food, without existing on a diet of salad or bland food. Accepting and rising to the challenge would be useless if it dented my enjoyment of the trip. I explained the situation to myself and I accepted things. We both did actually.

Saturday was a breeze. I barely thought about things and ate like a British tourist at a Sri Lankan beach hotel buffet. One of those tourists with a yellow wristband, not just a blue one.

Sunday was a slightly different matter. C and me had some lunch and bumped into the Gypsy and another friend at Barefoot. I could feel a bit of a build up occurring, rather like a dam with a a steadily rising water level. My control was good, managing to talk to the Gypsy and tensing all my stomach muscles at the same time. It was hard work, that much I'll admit to you, though I'd be obliged if you don't tell the Gypsy about it.

I figured it would be smart to eat my way through the discomfort, so had a main course and a dessert. With hindsight that might have been a tad unwise. Thank God for belts with more than one hole and Diet Coke. By the evening things had got so uncomfortable that I could only eat a whole lamprais for dinner. And some of C's rice and curry too.

Monday morning saw C go off to work and me alone at the hotel. I was still a man on a mission but that mission meant that I also had to enjoy all that Serendib has to offer. I ate my breakfast of string hoppers, chicken curry, parippu and some pol sambol, with some seeni sambol too, with the zeal of a man eating his last meal before the electric chair.

As I sat on my very own special chair shortly afterwards, though this one wasn't electric, I feared for the plumbing and sewage systems of Colombo, more than normal I mean. As one man to another I can tell you that this poo was one of those eye watering types that leave a chap slightly breathless, admiring his own work and wondering about gay sex a bit. Michelangelo would have looked up and admired his work, I looked down.

I completed the paperwork, flushed and ran to the window of my room. I peered carefully over Beira Lake expecting to see it pop up at any moment, perhaps I'd see some guys in a rowing boat have to swerve to avoid it or a small crowd of onlookers pointing and screaming. Nothing happened. I was probably looking at the wrong place. It must have come out next to the Beach Wadiya into the sea there.

I'd been defeated by the challenge but that was okay. The rest of the day saw an RD with a lightness in his step and a large amount of air in his stomach, or semi colon or whatever it's called, the poo storage place.

Without even trying I lasted all the rest of the day with no further movements. I left the next morning, lasting the journey without going. I hate to poo in strange places but there's no place stranger than an aircraft toilet.

The first thing I did when I got home, after calling my Mum of course, was another satisfying log drop.

And, even though I failed the challenge, I do consider it to be a success. I went to Sri Lanka and only did one poo in my time there.

There's a prize for anyone who can beat that!

Who Wants To Live Forever?

Like most authors say at regular intervals, I started a new book the other day. The difference with me is that I'm not an author so I'm talking about the reading thing, not the writing part. It's called "Our Tragic Universe" by Scarlett Thomas and it captured me within the very first pages.

I think my reading, my appetite for all things literary and my sense of confidence in my own ability to appreciate books, has grown in recent times. So much that I find myself giving up on books that don't hold my attention. It feels like a reflection of my reader's maturity, gone are the days when I absolutely had to finish every book I began in order to judge whether I liked it.

It's kind of mad as well, the amount of time I, and you, must have wasted in reading books we didn't like. We spent those hours ploughing through only to get to the end and decide it was rubbish. If I could figure out a way of eliminating doing things in my life that I subsequently discover I don't like then I'll not only make some serious money but I'll also have total fun in spending it.

But would there be any joy without joylessness? Which came first, the chicken or the tree falling in the woods?

I digress, the thing is I had started another book a week ago. It was a book called "The Ask", in fact it still is a book called "The Ask", by a fellow called Sam Lipsyte. The reviews on Amazon led me to believe it's the funniest thing since The Inbetweeners or that story about no civilian casualties. I kid you not when I tell you that I wondered whether I'd feel uncomfortable reading it in public as I'd be laughing out loud so often. Sorry kids, laughing out loud means LOL, just so you know.

Halfway through this book I bailed. It just wasn't doing it for me. Yes, there were a few occasions when I'd lolled, albeit very quietly, but it seemed overcomplicated, as if the author wanted to come up with brilliantly wordy and sophisticated sentences the scholars would marvel at in years to come. The only snag being that old RD couldn't understand them.

I contemplated the abandonment for a few chapters, then did it when I was least expecting to. My sentiments, now at least, are that I might come back to the book at another time, one when I'm more intelligent and sophisticated, or I might just dip into it now and again to see if if grabs me. Such are some of the advantages of owning a Kindle.

Our Tragic Universe, which I've only just begun, isn't a ball grabbing tension filled fast paced page turner type. No, but it did get my attention, more in a gentle and sexy way, one that took a bit of effort then had me hooked.

The language is very British, the sense of self deprecating humour and understatement seems to be there and it's already flung several new and brilliant similes at me, ones I've forgotten straight away but may just be wallowing in my subconscious ready to spring out at a moment's notice. Like a thing, out of a whatsername.

I started this post because I wanted to share this one with you, it made me stop, gasp and think. It's really rather lovely and goes like this:

"Living forever would be like marrying yourself, with no possibility of divorce."

I'm off to the Motherland tonight.

Laters.

A New Pregnancy Test?

I slightly introduced Marc to you here. Well he's still around at my work, the only difference since we last checked in with him was that he's since got married and has a young baby.

He's from the Ivory Coast is Marc and is one of life's gentle but mean looking mothers. He resembles a gangster, well a gangsta, wearing the style of clothing made popular by P Diddy and Snoopy Snoopy Dog Dog, those kind of chaps. His accent is a strange mix of African sounds with French, English and deep gruff noises. The technical term is "fucking hard to understand at the best of times".

He's also one of my best workers. Here's a little story that happened the other day.

It was about 7.45 AM and I was sat at my desk pretending to work. Marc, who starts at 8 AM, rang and I answered the phone, though I didn't know it was him until I'd done so. I listened very carefully in my attempt to decipher what he was saying. The gist of it was that his wife was vomiting and he was running a little bit late because of that but would be at work shortly.

I said that that was fine and asked him not to call me "shortly".

He arrived soon after that, came up to my office to explain again and I told him all was fine, that the main thing was that she was better now. Then, being the joking cad that I am, I asked him if she might be pregnant again, that this could be one of the signs. He went pale, quite an achievement for him, laughed in a slightly forced way and looked more nervous than a Qantas passenger who, casually gazing out of the window, spots some oil staining on the A380's engine, the one with the flames coming out of it.

And off he went, downstairs to his lair in the warehouse. I chuckled at my wit and good humour.

Some time later I went downstairs to the warehouse, because that's where it is. I saw Jay, my right hand man, and told him about my joke with Marc, adding that he might want to wind Marc up a bit about the situation. He burst out laughing and told me what had happened some minutes before after Marc had come to speak to me.

It turned out that I had misunderstood Marc from the very beginning of our conversation. It wasn't his wife that was being sick, it was actually his young baby. So, when I'd asked him if the wife was pregnant again, what with the sickness being a possible sign, Marc had thought that I'm the owner of some wisdom and knowledge and that it was a medical fact that a young baby being sick might be a sign of the mother being with child.

Marc, being concerned, had immediately phoned his wife to ask if she was expecting, as his boss had told him it was likely. She'd told him to stop being an arse, that there is no such old wives' tale, or words to that effect. I don't know the ins and outs of his love life and I don't have any plans to find out, but there seemed no doubt that the good lady knew her stuff.

We all found this mightily amusing, so much so that I might even write to Readers Digest about it.

Panic Post

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then I ate it.

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

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

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

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

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

Tonight I'll get a takeaway.

I Don't Do I Don't Do

I like the English language. I like the Singlish language too, maybe because that's one way in which my cultures come together and mix with all the ease of oil and water.

But I can't claim to be a fan of the things the Americans have done to English. They change things for no apparent reason, they simplify things that never needed simplifying and complicate things that were nice and simple in the first place.

What was so wrong about a lift that it became the four syllable mouthful of "elevator"? Why did our good sturdy pavements change into sidewalks and, the most troubling of the examples for sure, why did an arse trade places with an ass and confuse the hell out of donkey fans and arse kickers everywhere? Can you imagine the confusion if you lived in the US and wanted to hold an arse kicking party?

My most recent gripe is the continued unnecessary use of the phrase "I don't do...".

I was listening to a radio programme, or should that be program, the other day. There was a jokey feature in which the roving reporter had to go on a rollercoaster and sing a song, for the listeners to guess the song and win prizes galore.

The presenter introduced the feature, sensationalising it as they always do, and added that it was extra hard for the reporter to have done because "you don't do rollercoasters do you?"

I hate this fucking phrase, really I do. It's grammatically incorrect, it's overly dramatic, it's almost always factually incorrect and I believe it's jumping on that very American obsession about being obsessive. Everyone these days has to be "a little OCD" about something.

In my day it was perfectly acceptable to decide not to like rollercoasters much. We felt no compulsion to make all our dislikes into major psychological disorders, ones that Miley Cyrus and the cast of Glee all have.

I was at home with K the other day and making dinner. I asked her to chop some onions. Her response?

"Oh Dad, do I have to? Only I don't really do knives"

"You what?" I said, while screwing up my face in that confused, puzzled and disbelieving Dad look.

"You don't do knives?" I asked.

"No I just don''t like them" she replied.

I shook my head with exasperation, then I chopped the onions, that's how annoyed I was.

I was chatting to David Blacker the other day and the subject of pants came up. That's pants in the proper British way of underwear, not the American trouser thing. I told DB about the recent tremendous pants I've bought, the extra strong ones in Odel. His response?

"I don't do pants"

I frowned and then listened to his rather sad and poignant explanation.

Apparently when he was a young lad he was assaulted in the pants section of House Of Fashions by a gang of middle aged Muslim women. They stole his packet of cigarettes and his membership card for The Library, that nightclub in the Cinnamon Lakeside, though it was of course called the Transasia in those days. He's never fully recovered and so, to this day, never wears pants. If you see him just have a quick grope if you doubt me.

Keep all that to yourself though won't you.

Bloody Americans.

That's why I don't do I don't do.

Search Me

Once in a while I like to peruse the statistics, or stats if you're American, for my blog. It's interesting to look at the words and phrases people have typed into their search engines that have led them to these parts, it often throws up some surprises and never ceases to makes me laugh.

One of my biggest claims to fame, in life in general, is that I'm the number one match if you search for "Elephant House Cream Soda". Well, I am on the UK Google site but have been relegated to third on the Sri Lankan one. And curiously, like many bloggers whom I've seen comment on the phenomenom, I get a good few hits from people searching for sex related phrases that I'm not aware I've ever written about.

Here's the recent top five, finishing off with a number one that I think you'll agree is quite possibly the funniest search term ever:

5. "Condoms in Colombo" - Well it's not funny per se, but it gives me a feeling of pride to know that my blog might be giving advice to hapless fellows looking for raincoats in Serendib.

4. "Sri Lankan big boob young girl" - No, I don't know why. Puzzling, slightly strange.

3. "Why do hairdressers wear black?" - What sort of a person needs to search for the answer to this question? In fact what sort of a person needs to ask it in the first place. Just to clear things up it's so the hair doesn't show up all over the hairdresser's clothing. Fuckwit.

2. "Peeing in urinal for long time" - This is a chin scratcher of the highest order. So some bloke goes into a public urinal, pees for a long time then googles the matter to see why? Or is it another chap who witnesses the event and wonders why it's happened? Perhaps it's a curious woman, trying to find out the secrets of men, the things we do in a urinal. Which is just to pee really, unless of course you're name is George and you used to be in Wham.

1. "Rearranged furniture and dog crapped everywhere" - I don't need to patronise you with narrative about this and why it's so funny. But I will. Imagine what I think can be the only explanation for this. Some random bloke decides to move some of his furniture around a bit. No way was this a woman, I don't know why, that's just the way it is. He puts his settee over there, the chair over here and turns the coffee table ninety, perhaps eighty five degrees.

Then, on his return from a hard day's work, probably at a furniture shop, perhaps a pet store, he discovers that his dog has taken a dislike to the new arrangement and crapped everywhere. So, he googles the situation and ends up reading about Sri Lanka, some drummer bloke and his mad daughters.

Brilliant. Totally.