Drink My Joy Juice

So not only is it called Joy Juice but it's also called Kickapoo.

I think you'll understand why I just had to buy a can and take a picture of it.

Pure class. Tastes like poo too.

When Only A List Will Do

1. This business in Mumbai is beyond description, my sympathies to Indyana and anyone who is affected by it.

2. Thanksgiving was good and interesting. I'll tell you more about it at another time. I stuffed my face, but drew the line at eating cranberry sauce that was sliced. On balance I'd rather have had a good rice and curry.

3. It's seriously hot here today. I woke up with the sunlight streaming through the leaves and life felt good.

4. This morning I bought that light I told you about, probably as a Christmas present for A, though I'm unsure right now. It is the most exciting purchase I've made for a while, so good that it will have its own post with photographs of the different shades of light for sure.

5. I'm off in a minute to take some pictures of random things. I'll be wearing combat style shorts, my almost favourite 69 T shirt and my too cool for school Croc flip flops. Stop me and say hello if you see me.

Sometimes, sometimes a chap just has to do a list.

Good weekend all.

RD's Log, November 27th, Thanksgiving

The Singapore research and discovery continues. Only five minutes ago I saw a huge fat bloke get out of a van. One of those fellows that waddle rather than walk, usually because it's a struggle to walk with bended legs. As he levered himself out of the van I watched as its suspension relaxed and moved up a good few inches. To cap it all off nicely the chap was wearing white Birkenstock style slippers. Unbelievable!

And, for the first time in my young life, I'll be off to celebrated Thanksgiving tonight. To us, in England, Thanksgiving is something that the Americans do and always a good episode in Friends, which is the source of all of my knowledge on the matter. I don't know if there'll be praying and religious bits involved, I do know that I've got a hell of a lot to be thankful for, though am wholly unsure who I should thank for it.

Is it arrogant to feel as if I should thank myself for many of the positives in my life? Is it cocky to say that I'm a firm believer in the old saying that the harder I practice the luckier I get? Would it be way more humble and decent if I chose a God or two to worship and give thanks to?

I don't know the answer to these questions but they have got me thinking. Isn't being religious a bummer in that you'll never know for sure until you die? Imagine what it must feel like for someone to spend all their life being devout and pious and then, upon their death, to be told by St Peter that there's nothing here anymore. Or to lie on the old deathbed and then go nowhere after the event.

Anyway enough about that. One of the reasons I was thinking about death is that I read yesterday of the sad death of Michael Lee, a thirty nine year old drummer. He was an outstanding player, had toured and played with Page and Plant and I had seen him play with Thin Lizzy. In fact one of my very early blog posts covered my views on the gig in March 2006.

Last night I had a quick look at the post and was amazed and slightly embarrassed by it. It was as if it was written by a different person, I can't describe it in more detail really. There was no feel to it and it reminded me of a school chemistry experiment write up. These days I write a post or two and there are lots of things going on in my head, things more than the simple "what happened next" element.

The fact is I've got a thousand thanks to give and I'm grateful to anyone who reads this blog too. So I'll thank you to start with.

I know that I'll have to eat a whole turkey and wear expandable trousers, the rest I'll play by ear. In fact I'll probably opt for the new blue grandad top I bought and the jeans that make my arse look quite good.

Happy Thanksgiving all!

PS - Fat bloke's back in the van now. He's texting someone. I thought you'd want to know.

Through The Window

Something about the symmetry, the lines and the lighting of this so tacky that it's so classy window display caught my eye. Sadly I had to ramp up the ISO to 800 to be able to handhold the shot so some of the detail has been lost.

But it feels good anyway.

More to come..

Reporting In

I've been taking a few pictures in these past days and this post is really just for two reasons, a bit of a vanity post.

Firstly it's to stop Noorie going mental, doolally or whatever term she used. I can't quite remember her choice of word, but I do remember that it was something I don't want to be held responsible for, honoured as I would be in one way. Secondly it's to whet your appetite, if that's possible, to give you some snippets of what I've been up to, without giving too much away.

One of the things I've been paying lots of attention to in these recent days is Singapore's approach to retail and the quirky and simply wicked things that one can buy here. I think it must be how the retail environment evolves in any country. A bit like Maslow's hierarchy only applied to shopping.

The first stage is when the shops sell only the essentials. I guess that would be things like food, basic clothing and iPods. The clothes would be those of the simplest variety; things like Marks and Spencer and Calvin Klein, nothing too flashy or expensive.

At the next level the shops must sell much more variety, but of the same basic items. This is when you can go out and choose from any number of brands of jeans, a vast array of T shirts and maybe even more than one kind of ladies' hair removal device.

The most advanced level is only achieved after many weeks. It's the stage that Singapore is in and it's all a bit mad.

It must take a country literally weeks to get to this stage and it surely is the dream of many an up and coming nation to get its retail industry to this advanced level. It's the level at which all needs are fulfilled easily and cheaply and people start to focus on wants. This means that all manner of totally stupid but fascinatingly interesting things become available in all the shops.

You more than likely know enough about me to know that I really do love shopping. It's taken me a while to accept the fact, I went through a long period of denial and was racked with guilt for many years, particularly being born into a Sri Lankan family.

The British are more liberal about things like this and I knew it would be a struggle for my parents to accept it. All in all they've been surprisingly good about it but I don't flaunt it. For example if they have people round for lunch and I return laden with shopping bags, I'll usually hide the bags and pretend I've just come back from football or the pub. I'm not totally okay with this but I do it out of respect.

But here in Singapore I've been unashamedly browsing through row after row and shop after shop of totally useless paraphernalia and I've been loving it, as that Justin Timberland fellow would say. I've been buying some of the things too.

Yesterday I successfully procured some more of the jelly type things that I like so much. Little bundles of joy and crap that taste like heaven and gelatine. I shan't tell you too much as I've taken some pictures of them and will do a separate post complete with said photos. However, I will tell you that I ate eight of them at about five in the morning. That will give you an idea of the level of excitement contained within me.

I found myself gazing with awe at a light, but not just any light. This was a special one that shone in an infinite number of colours, well perhaps slightly less than infinite, maybe ten or fifteen. But it was the lighting equivalent of fuzzy logic and you just touch the bit on the circular switch, like a circular rainbow with different colours on it, and the bulb instantly emits light of the selected colour. Fanfuckingtastic I think, the only question is how many of the things and for whom should I buy.

And I've spent time looking at these advanced retail concepts with interest. I've marvelled at Christmas decorations that are so bright, so tacky and so completely in your face that I want to go to House Of Fashions and stroll around the mens' trouser section just for its peace, tranquility and general feeling of calmness. Christmas decorations and heat are an uncomfortable mix for me. I'm used to cold and wet and darkness everywhere at this time of the year.

So I'll tell you more about all these things in the weeks to come. For now I'll carry on with my investigations, sampling and pondering.

Back soon, hopefully with accompanying pictures.

Apart From The Drama How Was The Flight?

Hello. So here I am, basking in the heat and warmth of Singapura, as Java calls it, chilling, relaxing, eating and drinking.

The flight over, my third in the new A380, was performed with the Singapore Airlines calmness, serenity and quiet efficiency that I am rapidly becoming seriously accustomed to. There's something pleasantly effortless about the way an SQ flight operates, as if it's a gentle river flowing steadily downhill. Everything slots into place nicely and one thing smoothly follows another.

This flight was late taking off, something that anyone who flies Sri Lankan Airlines regularly will be used to, but the tannoy announcement while we were all sitting at the gate raised some eyebrows, four to be honest, those of the woman sitting opposite me and my own black rather nicely formed ones. It went like this:

"Blah blah blah we are sorry for the late departure of this aircraft, this is due to the late arrival of the cabin crew".

Then, they said it again. It was a clear statement of responsibility, of almost shaming the crew to their customers. I could imagine some poor steward rushing out of the hotel while hurriedly doing up his trousers, probably with toilet paper dangling, all because his alarm hadn't gone off at the right time. The result was that he brought shame on all his colleagues, probably to their families and friend as well. Mass suicides and lifetimes of dishonour would no doubt ensue.

At least I think that's what me and the woman opposite were thinking and that's why we looked at each other and did a raised eyebrow thing. Well, that's what I thought, she may well have been flirting with me, I wouldn't know really, I'm crap with all that stuff.

The smoothness of the flight was jolted ever so slightly by two of those calls over the aircraft's PA for a Doctor. I've only ever seen this happen once before in my life, when I was with Academic Bro, so twice on one flight was exciting.

The first time (on Friday's flight) was because some young fat Aussie woman about four seats in front of me had managed to pass out briefly as she was walking to the toilet. All evidence was that she was fine so I feel justified in writing about it in mocking tones. I didn't see her fall but I saw the scene a little while afterwards. There were some people huddled around her and she was loudly trying to convince everyone that she was fine.

I'm no Doctor but my Mum is and Academic Bro is, though he's a Dr of Geography or something, but I feel that I was qualified enough to know that Oz bird was okay. She was too loud to be ill. The aircrew felt differently and put out the call for a Doctor. I assumed they found one but lost interest and went back to my iPod and the Pendulum album I've been listening to.

You can imagine my surprise then when, about two hours later, they put out another call for a Doctor. I thought it was a bit strange. Wasn't the previous one good enough? Did the patient die so they figure they better use a different fellow for the next emergency? Did the first Doctor say that he'd only do one emergency? Or what? Then, in slightly tangential mode, what would happen on a plane if they can't find a Doctor? Maybe they lower their expectations and ask for a vet, perhaps if there's no vet they go for a mechanic. The possibilities are baffling.

Then, about fifteen minutes later the call for a medical person was repeated, with another surprising twist. This time they said:

"If there's a Doctor on board please come forward, there's a sick passenger" none of that was surprising, the next bit was

"In seat 55c."

A whole planeload of passengers subtly did what I did; turned as if I was casually stretching to see what, or who, was going on in seat 55c. If I was a Doctor I would have done the sensible thing, checked out the occupant to see if they were good looking enough to warrant treatment from me. If I was a smart member of the cabin crew I would have chosen a particularly good looking seat occupant to use their seat number just to find a Doctor. Then I would have grabbed the Doctor and sent them over to the ugly sweaty bloke having a loud heart attack in the corner.

As it happened I couldn't quite see the poorly occupant of seat 55c. I imagine he or she was focussing on dying / throwing up / fainting and a bit pissed off about all the people suddenly turning around and staring at them. I left them to it and settled back into my seat.

The rest of the flight was uneventful. I read some masculine literature, not even porn. I bought a particularly testosterone filled book at the airport, all about some kind of super hero called Jack Reacher. This book, evidently one of a series, probably won't be up for a Man Booker prize, but really should be up for a Man prize. Our hero, a fellow called Jack Reacher is about fifteen times as hard as James Bond, Indiana Jones and that Bourne fellow put together. On top of that he's got the intelligence of a Nobel prize winning scientist and the woman pulling abilities of Joey from Friends.

I suppose it's fair to say I see something of myself in him, but I don't want to brag. Anyway, the book's crap but more addictive than nicotine, betel and a few string hoppers all mixed together.

The plane landed, I strolled out into the Singapore heat and will tell you more later....

Doing A Soixante Neuf

I'm off for a while. No big drama though, I'm just mooching to Singapore for a week or so. There'll be no deleting of my blog or anything like that.

By the time you're reading this I'll be firmly ensconced on a nice Singapore Airlines A380, my new favourite plane. My inflatable pillow will be operating at its limits and my iPod will be repeatedly blasting out the songs that I need to learn.

Drumming magazines will be read, the Samurai book will be devoured with the hunger and eagerness of an out of work Japanese actor about to audition for a remake of the Water Margin and I'll be as relaxed as a fellow after a night out with Java, something I know a little bit about.

As I right this, at 8.40 on Thursday morning, I'm faced with a burning issue. I know that I'll be leaving London when it will be cold, maybe snowing, and the question of what to wear on the plane looms large. I know that it will be my slim jeans (not skinny, just slim) in "half wash blue". They do have a slight tendency to slide down my arse a bit but the old Rhythmic bum looks good in them as long as I keep them pulled up.

The chocolate brown Converse (s) cut offs will accompany but I've yet to decide on the socks and pants. You know me, I like to live dangerously.

On the pants front I was disappointed the other day, as I pulled out one of my many pairs of Odel pants from the drawer, to see one of those gaping rips across the seat. Fortunately this wasn't one of the brightly coloured and prettily patterned pairs, just one of the stripey ones, but the frown on my face was deep as I contemplated whether I had done one too many stealth farts.

I know that I'll be wearing a particular scarf, the orange and brown striped one. Isn't it funny how the world today is about the size of a whole country from thirty years ago?

I'll be flying from London to Singapore, something I've done many times recently. I'll finish work on Friday, dash off and change and shower, then go. I'll be wearing pants and a scarf that I bought in Odel only a few months ago. Cool.

The big issue is my choice of shirt and or jumper. Do I wear just a shirt knowing that it will be warm enough on the plane? Or should I wear a T shirt with a jumper, giving me a mixture of warmth with the ability to take the jumper off as I near the equator? The downside of that is the whole carrying around the jumper thing.

I don't know, but I do think I'll have figured it out by the time you read this.

I might do a post or two while I'm away, I might not. Sometimes these breaks are good to fill the mind with inspiration and observations, especially if one detaches from the very thought of observing and just enjoys the moment.

One of the little chunks of wisdom I read in my Samurai book the other day is that life is just a load of moments strung together and happiness can come from focusing on enjoying each moment as it happens, without thinking about what's next. Well, as soon as I figure out the shirt and jumper thing I might just do that.

Back in a bit.

RD

He Has To Go

Well I think the time has come. Although I love his blog and his writing Unbound Urchin, or at least the link to his blog from here, is going to have to go.

It's now five months since his last post and, even though one of the latest entries tells us that he's busy with Uni things, I think it may well class as a dead blog. I hope Mr Urchin is keeping well and will welcome him back with open arms to our little family of links when the time comes.

Of course, in the meantime that creates a vacancy for a new blog to step up to the challenge. At the moment, off the top of my head, there are no obvious candidates. I'd like to link to a blog that's fresh, that has a Sri Lankan element to it and that is interesting to read. I'd also like it to be a blog that I read regularly, or at least that I would read regularly. It seems that all my current regulars are listed here anyway.

Any suggestions?

That's Sick That Is

At about 11 yesterday morning I got a phone call from K's school. The nice lady told me that K had been sick and was now in the medical room. She asked me to go and collect her to take her home.

As most parents would do I steamed off with the speed of a Sri Lankan bus driver on acid. I did the twenty minute journey in about, well roughly speaking, world record time and presented myself at the school reception area.

Now my experience of Sri Lankan schools is virtually non existent but I would guess that the security procedures involved in getting a child out of school early are very different in the UK compared to Lanka. Here people are worried about children being abducted (quite rightly) and all kinds of things, so there's signing of forms, pressing of buzzers and proving of identity to be done before you can grab your child.

They're the sort of procedures that all parents go through quite happily, knowing that they're for the safety of the children rather than just because some idiot in an office has had a bad day with his computer and decided to put a nice system in place somewhere just for the sake of it.

So I happily did the signing, proving and buzzering and the nice helpful lady made a phone call to someone somewhere who I assumed would accompany the prisoner to me. K is a robust and happy go lucky sort of kid, as you well know, and on the phone I had been told that she had been sick but now appeared to be fine, so I expected a beaming and slightly smug kid to arrive.

Remember that feeling, when you were a kid and managed to get a day off, with the knowledge that you were getting one over your parents and going to have a nice day? Well, nor do I, but I could see that was how K was feeling.

She bounded up to me.

"Hi Dad" she almost shouted, then remembered that she was ill and quietened the general demeanour a bit.

"Hi K, how are you feeling?" I said with genuine concern.

"Oh I'm fine, I got sick earlier but I'm fine now, just a bit of a tummy ache."

"Ok. Well where do you want me to take you? I can drop you at Archa's or take you home, it's up to you." I pretty much knew the answer.

"Would you be coming to Archa and Appa's or would it just be me with them all afternoon?"

"Well I'll drive you over there and check you're alright but I'll have to go back to work, then I'll drop you back home in the evening after I get back from work." I replied.

"Erm, in that case can you take me home, I'll be fine on my own."

"Of course I will."

We walked towards the door and I felt a little bit pleased that she wanted to be with me, a little bit annoyed that I had to go back to work and rather pleased that she was not very ill.

As we walked down her school corridor there were some yellow hazard cones around an area of the floor. K pointed to them and said to me.

"Dad, see those cones there?"

I looked at them, they were hard to miss. Only an ambulance chasing parasite could have not spotted them.

"Well they're marking off the area where I got sick, just there."

"Oh cool." I said.

"You mean you actually got sick on the floor?"

"Yes, I was running to the toilet from my maths lesson but didn't make it." She replied, with a definite sense of pride in her voice.

"Nice one K." Said I, glowing with that fatherly pride.

I dropped her home, saw that she was settled with drinks, TV remote and all the necessaries, I texted her mother to let her know what had happened, then drove back to work.

I checked on her regularly by phone and she was fine. The last field report from her informed me that she was on the settee and had watched two films on the pay per view cable thing.

A nice afternoon at home, some films and some girl time!

She was happy.

Photo Of The Moment

By Aamina Nizar

It's the mixture of bright colours, straight lines and the deep black between them that makes this one.

Very nice. Check her blog for more.

Gnu Banned

Oftentimes I find myself comparing life here in London with life there in Colombo, or at least the bits I know about each side. The musical elements of each city are specific qualities I compare frequently what with music being such a big part of my life.

I'm not talking about classical music at all. Sri Lanka is rich with her traditional music and drumming in particular is such a big part of the musical backdrop that I can only compartmentalise it as one of the fundamental differences between the countries. Comparisons would be fruitless, useless and pointless.

No, I'm referring here to good old fashioned rock 'n' roll. Well, not strictly rock 'n' roll but just modern music, the whole band and rock thing, the popular beat combos as Java would call them.

In Sri Lanka and in England I've seen fantastic bands and I've seen totally crap ones, along with pretty much everything in between. But, the main difference is the sheer number of people who play music.

Here there are rehearsal studios all over the show. You can pop into any one of these studios any night of the week and listen to a cacophany of muffled rehearsal sounds wending their way through the not insulated enough walls.

My impression, and correct me if I'm wrong as I'd genuinely like to know, is that in Lanka there are fewer bands, fewer studios, less venues, smaller audiences and of course, smaller people. And frankly, I prefer being involved in the British music scene.

Now don't get me wrong. I prefer the Sri Lankan weather, the Sri Lankan food, the cost of living, Sri Lankan sarongs and many other things. I love that I've been allowed to play a song or two in Barefoot and the Library over the years and that I can genuinaly class some of Sri Lanka's best musicians as friends.

It's the opportunity and spread of music here that I adore and continually feel grateful for. Colombo has a smallish pond of pop / rock musicians, a mix for sure. The talent and variety is there but it's a small pond. London has a vast ocean of the same. The total mix of quality and the huge quantity mean that the opportunities for a strictly amateur but totally passionate average drummer like me can fly at me and hit me when I'm not ready or looking. Which is nice.

And there I was, happily playing a gig with the covers band some time back when the idea of a splinter band came up. There's this girl singer / guitarist you see, well not so much a girl but a woman. She liked my drumming, though I'm used to the whole thing when they use that as a devious way to get me into bed (I wish), there's a great bassist who's keen and the guitarist from the covers band is up for it too.

We had a meeting last week and a chat about what we would each like to do, in terms of gigging, choice of songs and rehearsals. It was quite informal and we've all got the same attitude of giving things a go and seeing how it turns out.

I'm particularly excited at the prospect of playing behind a decent female lead singer and this one of far more of a "rock chick" type than the previous one in Mimosa. She's got that Alanis edgy thing to her which could be fun and also might be scary if she suddenly decides to hate every single man in the world. I don't reckon the last bit will happen though. She also wears a leather jacket, essential for the genuine rock chick image. She's totally passionate about music too.

We decided on five songs to learn and try out at our first band practice, which is scheduled for a couple of weeks' time. They're all quite melodic but with a grooving feel too.

Rehab - Amy Winehouse

Mercy - Duffy

That's not my name - Ting Tings

Sweet about me - Gabriella Cilmi

I kissed a girl - Katy Perry


I think it could be fun.

What do you reckon?

Maybe It's Because I'm A Lankaner

That I can get plateloads of pleasure from both Sri Lankan and British cuisine. I must confess to considerable pride in the title of this post actually. It just came to me and I think it's got that rather poetic ring to it, like receiving a phone call from William Wordsworth, William Shatner, Theena or one of those other bards.

I like food and I'm quite the food whore. The only things I shy away from are snails and anything else I don't like. All else is fair game to me. Except fish of course, but that's understandable. My favourite food, without a doubt, would definitely be rice and curry. I'm not sure what exact dishes but a generic description of "rice and curry" should cover it.

On the other side of the world I also love lots of British food. To some the term "British food" is an oxymoron. To me it's a wonderful world of cuisine, some I like and some I'm not so enthusiastic about.

English breakfast, fish and chips, shepherd's pie, roast beef with Yorkshire pud, pie and mash, bubble and squeak, they're all delicious and just the thought of them makes my mouth water.

But you know the one meal that I don't think I could live without?

Sausages, mash and baked beans.

Actually, in all honesty I could live without the mash and beans but not the sausages. Whenever I'm away from England for too long it's sausages that I start to miss. Good proper English sausages, none of your European "Frankfurter" types stuffed full of meat and with that texture that makes them all bouncy and bendy. No I mean proper English ones made with pork and pepper, bread and bollocks and eyes and things.

I avoid Sri Lankan sausages like I avoid salad. I know the reasons for their popularity in Sri Lanka but frankly, if God had meant us to eat chicken sausages then he wouldn't have given us KFC or chicken curry, would he now?

The Great British sausage has got a skin and should be cooked so that the skin gets crispy. It shouldn't be pierced before cooking, too many amateurs make that mistake and end up with some sort of health sausage with no juices. In my worldwide investigations I've found that most countries have a sausage or two of their own. The Spanish have got their chorizos, the Italians have their salamis and the Germans have their wursts. They're all quite nice but they're not the same as the good old English banger.

The meal of sausages, mash and beans is one of contrasting textures and warming taste sensations. The meatiness of the sausage finds its perfect partner in mashed potato, not just any mashed potato either. It has to be smooth and creamy with lots of butter and each bit of sausage must be coated with mash as it's raised to the mouth.

I can't claim to be a baked bean snob, I don't reckon I could taste the difference between Heinz beans and other inferior ones if I was blindfolded, though, were I blindfolded, I could think of many far more exciting things to do than eat baked beans. Of course I only buy Heinz baked beans though, which probably makes me some sort of hypocrite, or a has bean.

The beans provide a third texture to the already interesting mix. We have the crumbliness of the sausage meat, the smoothness of the mash and then the sauciness, slight firmness and interesting shape of the baked beans. Different folks add different sauces to the mix. As a tribute to my heritage and background I usually go for chilli sauce but, even in the house of RD, there may be found a plate of sausages, beans and mash with nothing more spicy than a dollop of tomato ketchup or brown sauce on the side.

Each mouthful is a little symphony, all the elements blend and make for a gastronomic synergy that is simply delicious.

Next time I'll tell you about the joys of a great Cornish pasty. Mmmmmm....

This Cracked Me Up

And I don't know why.

http://puddingrelations.blogspot.com/2008/11/can-i-have-my-spider-back-please_1016.html

Even thinking about it makes me laugh. I should probably get out more.

My Measuring Mustard Muddle

English mustard that is.

The Sri Lankan in me is good with and used to condiments. No meal is complete unless it's accompanied by something that tastes of chilli and rarely is a meal classed as finished until I've poked a bit of wood between every gap I can find in my teeth and made a lot of sucking noises.

Tomato sauce, brown sauce, mild mustard and the like all have their uses. But, if it doesn't have that kick to it then it won't be a staple of my diet. And mustard is a a recognised supplier of that kick that we all crave. Not your mild mannered French variety, nor the mild mannered French's variety, I mean good old English mustard, the bright yellow stuff that makes so many good things taste even better.

Yet it's an enigma for me too. I love its taste and you'll find me adding it to any number of bland but good meats. Roast beef, ham, sausages and even scotch eggs all taste so much more special with a dollop of the bright yellow. But I can never, even now at my ripe old age, gauge the correct amount to add to a dish. This isn't such an issue when there's a pile of it on the side of a plate and I can add to each mouthful as I go. Ongoing fine tuning can be done and things usually turn out quite nice.

No, it's sandwich making that foxes me. I'm sure it's a scene you're familiar with and a conundrum that you've had to deal with many a time too. There we all are, making a nice meat sandwich, it can be any type of meat or perhaps a fish based one if you're that way inclined. Then, when we get to the adding English mustard part of the assembly process, the spoon of mustard gets applied.

If too little mustard is used there may as well be no mustard at all. It just adds a vague mustardey aroma and the mildest of tastes, useless really. But the line at which the correct dose is measured is a thin one, hard to find and therefore usually marched straight over. That's when the problems can arise. As we bite into the sandwich the mustard just goes up the nasal passage and hits the back of the throat, that bottom of the nose area, the part where bogeys land when you sniff really hard.

It's a tear inducing feeling, as if you might gag or not make it through to the other side. Every time it happens I feel sympathy for chaps who have been affected by mustard gas, though I'm unsure if it's the same sort of mustard or even if it's made by Colemans. Perhaps the English mustard gas is much stronger than other nations' attempts and the American version tastes exactly like the cheese gas that they also do. I know not and can only speculate.

Either way, the mystery of using just enough Emglish mustard remains one of life's eternal quandaries.

Just a thought.

Maybe Obama's Not All That

On the radio the other I heard a newsy piece saying that Obama was considering moving his, and I have to breathe deeply before I say it, Mother in Law into the White House.

I was one of the millions who had such high hopes, such feelings of optimism and excitement, but this has made me reconsider. My experience of mothers and mothers in law is quite vast, though I'm pleased to say none of the mothers in law have been vast.

And I mean no disrespect to the average mother in law. My last one was quite nice, in that scary way.

Can you imagine it? The President of the free world and all that, arguing with his Mother in Law over Cuba or whether he should invade Australia or another place that can't run itself?

Or getting in trouble with the old bird because he forgot to tell her that he wasn't going to be in for dinner that night.

The White House will suddenly become one of those places where you have to take your shoes off at the front door.

It's a recipe for disaster. Don't do it Mr Obama, we warned you.

What Am I Doing?

Up at 6.56 AM on a Sunday morning?

Well, I was woken by a strange dream, that and an alarm clock.

I'll be up and about in a minute to go and collect A and take her to her drum lesson. Our routine is nice now. We stop at a local Starbucks on the way, I grab my Latte Grande, then we drive the minute's journey to the drum teacher's place. A goes in and I sit and wait in the car.

Today my choice of reading material will be the latest trashy novel that I'm devouring. It's another book that's written for what one could describe as a slightly less masculine reader than myself. It's all about glamorous women, money, sex and designer labels.

I've got two new CDs to listen to in the car too. They couldn't be more different and are both a bit fantastic. The first is by Pendulum, a drum 'n' bassish outfit. The more I listen to it the more I'm drawn in to it. The drumming is by a guy called Paul Kodish. His playing is as sharp as a needle, really on it. I think this CD will be a new regular listen for me.

The second is the Rev Al Green's newest. The music is played and produced mostly by the guys fron the Roots. Ahmir ?uestlove Thompson is one of the funkiest drumming cats around and this record, with Rev Green's voice behind him, is the perfect vehicle for his tasteful and grooving drumming.

The day starts early in these parts.

I've Never....

Reckoned this tagging thing will catch on...

Dominic Sansoni Scared Me

One can take negative or positive views about things that happen in life. I try to do the latter, finding that I feel happier that way. It's a cunning plan I know, but it usually works.

Not living with my kids means that I now treasure and cherish all the time I do get with them. Each telephone call, each little interaction and every moment take the form of segments of time that I wring smiles and laughs out of.

And there we were last night. At the 'rents' place, but the 'rents are still at Fidel's place so it was just the three of us. A, the 14 yr old, was on the 'rents' desktop doing revision for a maths exam, or math exam to you lot in the US. K, the 12 yr old, was sitting at the dining table and was on her laptop doing homework, a project on Sri Lanka which pleased me immensely.

Isn't it so last season when people talk about someone being "12 but going on 21" now? Every time I hear one of these statements it's made by a proud parent trying to put across the impression that their precocious teenager is precisely that, precocious. Well, in the case of K, as you're aware if you read here, she's 12 going on some kind of force to be reckoned with.

I digress though. I was sitting in the comfortable armchair reading my current beau. It's called "The Art of The Samurai" and is probably the most beautifully tactile book I've ever come across. I remember when I read Java's great post about sex with "unusual" partners. I chuckled heartily at the tales of chaps fornicating with bikes and traffic cones. Not the same chap I hasten to add, that would be perverse. I laughed with the rest of you at the bit about the guy caught making love to an underpass, wondering whether there was a good back passage joke in there somewhere.

Now I'm reading this book and have just a bit more empathy with these fellows than I did before. There's something about it that might just get me arrested. I find myself stroking the pages to feel the rather sexy texture of the paper, I often sniff and inhale the aroma of the print and paper and gaze at the quite lovely pictures with a faraway look in my eye. I think a whole separate post about the book, maybe with some photographs, will be out soon.

The music was interesting. My life, and the lives of the girls, are full of music. Every car we travel in, whenever we have the option, has music blaring out. A room with one of us in it and no music present is a rarity. Or a library. Life, in the minds of RD and the junior Diasporas definitely feels better to music. It's the same in the minds of the senior Diasporas too I'm pleased to report.

As we did our respective things each of us were in our own world but we were in the same world too, kind of like a venn diagram, it was nice. I rose above the scene and observed it for a minute. A was happy. She had her iPod on and was working, humming to herself and moving around a bit. K was working and had something music playing through her iTunes on the laptop. It was the Ting Tings, I was good with that. After a bit K and I opted for some Smashing Pumpkins as part of our joint drive to learn more about Mr Corgan's outfit. We changed the format, from K's laptop to her Grandfather's Bose iPod dock, and proceeded in the direction of contentment.

K was asking random questions about Sri Lanka and her project and I was only too happy to try to help. About a week ago she had asked me about famous Sri Lankan photographers and I had named that Sansoni chap and the Posingis fellow as examples of the breed. K had spent time with Mr Sansoni when we were in Lanka last so was quite pleased about that.

She shouted something about him, about his photographs of Sri Lanka beign very nice. I agreed, then felt that shiver of nerves and jitteriness that K is so good at making a parent feel. My mind worked quickly and it must have taken me a mere fifteen or twenty seconds to wonder what she was looking at onscreen to make a judgement about Dom's pictures. With the speed it takes a container ship packed full of elephants to turn full circle I stood up and peered casually at K's laptop screen.

My hunch was right. She was sitting there happily looking at Dom's blog, peering with admiration at his photographs, specifically the Sri Lankan ones. And, about 3 inches away from her cursor on screen were the links to other blogs, one of which said "London, Lanka and drums".

My blog gets a few hits these days and that means I have a few readers. However, there are some people who I hope never come across it for differing reasons. Then there are other people who I know will certainly come across it at some point and will probably read it with some interest and cross examine me about things. The girls fall into the second group, but I didn't expect that "some point" in time to be last night. I was unprepared and, just to stress how bad it was, I was unprepared too.

K is the inquisitve sort. She approaches life with wide eyed enthusiasm and a brain like a sponge. I knew that she was only a mouse click away from Kottu or from her Dad's previously unheard of blog. I knew that she might have read the words "London, Lanka and drums" and thought that they look like the kind of thing I'd be interested in. Then in seconds she would have been reading about things that the blogger's daughters did, who are referred to as "A" and "K". You can understand the fear I felt, there would have been some explaining, perhaps a certain amount of deleting of posts and the like.

She asked me more questions about Mr S and his photography, I tried to steer her away from peering at the screen and I felt like a hero in a film, hiding behind a curtain as the enemy searched the room for him. Only I was unsure who was the hero and who was the villain.

Finally, after what felt like days but I know, through a combination of age, wisdom, instinct and my watch, was in fact just about a minute, K navigated away from the page of fear. She was back peering at youtube or something less potentially dangerous.

I breathed a sigh of relief.

It was short and temporary. It's only a matter of time until my sordid blogger's life gets found out.

Then, we carried on with the evening.

We enjoyed it.

I've Never

So just noticed I was tagged here by Rose Tinted View.

A quickie then.

I've never:

Felt as comfortable as I do when I'm sitting at a drum kit

Been as close to Sri Lanka as I am now

Thought that money buys happiness. But it certainly can buy things that can help.

Had to stand on a box to reach the parts

Felt so rich and so poor at the same time

That's about it.

Tag to Cerno, Java (just because he gets so pissed off when he's tagged), Darwin and T. You know you want to.

Some Things I Don't Get...

1. The Fountain Cafe Hot Dog.

So many people rave about them, but they just taste like average hot dogs, with that peculiar bright yellow looking sauce and a sausage that looks and tastes as if it's got less meat content than the average string hopper.

2. Mercedes'

Some of the newer models look better but, by and large, they're old man's cars to me. Good, but not my thang.

3. Coldplay

They've written a handful of good songs, then rewritten them and remixed them, given them new names and made millions in the process. Good luck to them with their sad and melancholy sounding nuggets of musical mayhem.

4. I Just Called To Say I love You

And Lady In Red and Wonderful Tonight.

They may be packed to the rafters with meaningful and romantic lyrics. But they're crap songs. If I ever become President or Prime Minister of a country the first thing I'll do is to ban these from being played. Ever.

5. Janice.

Well I think I do get her, but had to mention the subject. I was watching an episode of Friends the other night. It was the one in which Joey's Dad stays with him for a few days, there's an ongoing battle between the six of them to try to see each other naked and Chandler double dates with Joey but his date turns out to be Janice, who he's dumped twice in the last three months.

Janice has got to be one of the best supporting / cameo roles ever hasn't she? She's the acting equivalent of fingernails down a blackboard with the addictiveness of nicotine thrown in to get us hooked.