'Hic'ka

It's Thursday. Our nation's glorious leader has decided to shut down Colombo city and host a 5-day gathering for the boys from the SAARC, where he and his fellow nincompoops will spin fictitious tales for the ignorant. There's no point in sticking around to witness it - mainly because, apart from the fact that His Lowness's shenanigans interest me not, I'm not allowed anywhere near the summit movements. The glorious leader must be savvy to my cunning plot to stand on the newly-vacated Glennie Street and throw rotten tomatoes at his passing bullet proof vehicle. Dang. My plans will have to wait for another opportune moment, and for now I think I will ensconce myself elsewhere.

Perhaps I'll traipse over to the Hikkaduwa Beach Fest. The boys at the Tourist Board have been raising their sarongs about it for about a month now, via the Real FM people. It sounds very exciting. Fleeing Colombites have been promised a week's worth of sun, sand and festivities that are costing just as much as the SAARC... of course I simply must attend and join in the party. And because I am cool and new-age, I shall henceforth refer to the place as 'Hikka' in the hopes that I fit in with the more initiated.

I've never been to Hikka. No I'm not ashamed of the fact, so stop gasping like they've announced another petrol hike. Yes, of course I'm excited about going. That is why I've bought myself a whole new wardrobe for my two-night expedition. Seven outfits in all because, really, you never know when you might need them. Batik shorts to look suitably Hikka Hippy-ish and some of those flowy dresses that will make me look like a romantic music video, where nubile beauties skip merrily in the shallow waters of the ocean in their wet flowy dresses and cavort about like easter bunnies. I can be an easter bunny. Most importantly, I should not forget a swimsuit. I have been told it's a MUST when on the beach. Two hours at Beverly Street and my mid-region convinces me that I can't wear a bikini, unless I want to drain the marijuana out of everyone's heads in Hikka. Woe is me. I shall have to resort to my faithful one-piece suit, practice sucking my tummy in and pray.

Fast forward to Thursday evening. I have driven to Hikka. Is this actually the acclaimed party central of Sri Lanka? It looks like a ghost town at Christmas time. Fairy lights everywhere but not a dog in sight. Oh wait... there's a dog. Where is everyone? Oh look... cops, telling me I can't park on the side of the road. I thought I'd left all that behind in Colombo. My hotel cannot accommodate my vehicle in its already full car-park, mutters the ancient security officer who is guarding it. I will have to park at the police station a couple of feet away and lug my bags in.

I am now in my hotel room (the one I spent the last three weeks fighting for, because everything in Hikka was booked up for the beachfest). What are those marks on the bed sheets? Oh lord, there are pubes on my pillow. Is that a pee stain on the toilet seat? And WHAT is that brown streak on the towel? Ew. This is not how I planned it. I do, however, have to applaud the Hotel for their honesty... at least they've kept everything white so I can actually SEE the smut marks left behind by the patrons of the past. Almost a show of pride, this. 'Look... see how many people have slept on this bed and pissed in this toilet. We are a truly popular enterprise.'

Joy.

An hour later and I am dressed in the first of my seven Hikka outfits and sitting at the Red Lobster in the hopes of having dinner. The table cloths here outdo my hotel bed sheets. I am curious to know if this is a Hikka tradition. Why is the waitress/proprietress carrying a child and serving food? It's a cute child, but his fingers are dirty... the ones he just dug his nose with.
My devilled beef and fried rice is quite good. I can eat all of it, if I don't think of the state of the kitchen I see below the stairs. I am full, and ready to hit the Drum festival.

Oh My Hikka Gawd. This drum festival is fabulous! Ravibandu, Jananath, Elephant's Foot, Vibrations, etc., etc. Just my cup if tea and I can't stop gyrating. Wonder why there are not many people here... except for that drunk fellow in front, jumping around like a rhesus monkey on LSD.
A femal rhesus impersonator has now joined... her little belt-cum-skirt leaves nothing to anyone's imagination, but she's too stoned to notice. Oh dear... please don't bend forward, honey. Wince. Never mind... the awesome drumming is worth this ludicrous exhibition of bad dancing and pink undies.

Time has lapsed once more and I have just woken up in my stained bed, four hours since I fell
asleep. I am suddenly bonding with this room... the whiteness of it all appeals to my lack-of-sleep-drugged mind. I don't mind the stains anymore... they have become familiar patches worth pondering over. The view of the ocean outside ain't half bad...

A quick wash in hot water that isn't hot, and into outfit no.2. Breakfast is being cleared so I grab at the last of the boiled eggs and sausages. Should I try the kiribath, I wonder. Nah... perhaps tomorrow. An hour hence and I am at the much-publicized Beach Market.

Er... where's the market? Oh... you mean that tent selling plastic toys... ok then. I feel like grumbling that the 2000 rupees I painfully handed over in exchange for a beach fest ticket is starting to look like a rip-off. Sigh... might as well trudge back to the hotel and sleep some m... oh heyyy... look at all those lovely bumpy bodies playing beach rugby... hmmm... hello there....

Gah. They're all barely fifteen. With bumpy faces. I am a Hikkaduwa paedophile. Gah.

More slodging in the sand, and I am now at the back entrance of my hotel that overlooks the sea. There is a group of kids playing about in the water and making loud screechy noises. By the looks of it and the sound of the sri-american accents, they are from one of those international schools... what other mothers would let their pre-teen daughters wear such scandalous bikinis that barely cover anything up? Look at them smoking and rubbing themselves up on those pre-pubescent boys like they've seen it done on VH1 and MTV. Tsk. But that water they're in looks inviting. If only I didn't have a phobia when it comes to the ocean.

But it's Hikka... and Hikka is said to be the beach of opportunity. I will dare the sea water. With the help and patience from a strong arm to cling onto like a drowning rat, my one-piece bathing suit and I are soon waist-deep in the waves and strangely enjoying the terrifying thrill of it. I can see those darned international school kids laughing at me... or are they laughing at my old-aunty swim suit and the paunch it fails to hide? I don't know, and I care little... I'm too busy being proud of myself for having stepped into the sea after 20 years. I'm even so bold as to reach into the sand and pick up pieces of dead coral that have washed up from the deep. Are those actualy pretty little fish swimming around my knees? Wow...

Another two hours and an outfit have passed. There is no better way to satisfy the hunger pangs developed from a sea bath than the Mama's buffet down the road. The spectacular spiciness is making me sweat and feel faint. Has there ever been a yummier rice and curry meal? Mmmm.... Mama, whoever she is, deserves a culinary medal.

A quick nap later and I am back at the beach market, where they are now showcasing the sand castle competitions and kite flying festivals. 6 kites in all. For some strange reason, alot of sand sculptures depict women with their bums up. Must be a Hikka beach boy thing. Again, nothing much to look at...except for that dog who is coolly raising its leg to one of the sandcastles. Back to the hotel room to change for dinner and the Beach Rave.

Dinner is delicious. I hope everyone knows about the superb food this Blue Shadow place has to offer... I have never tasted devilled crab this good and this meaty. The panic-ridden-ant-like waiter deserves a hefty tip, as does the cook. I could get used to the food in Hikka. On to the rave.

I have never been to a rave. I looked forward to this so much, and now I'm wondering why. I almost feel foolish for having dressed up in outfit number 5. Yes, it does make me fit in better with the other girls around, who all look like they've stepped out of a magazine. (the same magazine, by the way... since all of them seem to be wearing the same thing, like little clone-dolls). What is this terrible sound, ah? Is this what they call trance music? Where's the music part of it? Thump thump thump thud. Repeat twenty gazillion times over. I don't see how it's making everyone wiggle up and down the way they are. This time at least the beach is packed... and you can always tell who's from Colombo and who's not. The Colombites will be the plastic-looking ones wearing too much make-up, trying to imitate popstars and speaking in ridiculous boru accents. Kiss-kissing the air, holding cigarettes and downing drinks just to look fashionable. The others would be the Hikka beach bums who've crashed the party and are now pulling unnecessary stirs with the Colombo boys. Almost makes those security checks and the special wrist bands at the entrance redundant. I have had my ass grabbed and my last nerve stepped on too many times and it's only 11 o'clock.

I am about to turn away in boredom when they bring on the dancing girls. 6 blonde hotties all the way from the UK in their gold bikinis, who are shaking their sumptuous booties at the herd of salivating men migrating rapidly towards the stage with jaws and eyeballs dragging behind them in the sand. Not bad for the tourist board, to brings these ones down. Very progressive, I must say... especially allowing them to show off those bums and what-nots to that extent. Wish I could shake like that... I would too, if not for the danger of my flying flab knocking someone out. Maybe that old lady sitting over there in the Nilkamal chair and covering her mouth in distaste. WHO decided to bring Granny to the Beach rave anyway??


My feet are aching after having stood at the rave for five hours, doing little else than disapproving of the silly behaviour around me. I have yet not seen the point of a rave, nor why I was so excited about going to one. Give me tribal beats and latino dance any day over this techno muck. I want my room... my lovely, lovely white, stained room. Skip to next day.

Ahh... that sleep was fabulous. It is Sunday now, and the breakfast is good. I have eaten too much, but it doesn't stop me from stuffing my face at a Mama's lunch one last time. Outfit number 6 covers up the sin of gluttony. The party aspect of this Hikka place is too overrated in my opinion, but the food certainly lives up to expectation. Reminds me of Pattaya- dotted with wayside cafés and cheap eateries with excellent food. A quick stopover at a rather nice little place called Drifters where I meet a few friends, and I'm convinced I should have looked into other accomodation options before selecting my hotel room... Drifters, for instance, is quite nice with all those little snoozable beach hutty beddy thingies. And I hear the rooms are clean, too. I must stay here next time... and those foot massages for 300 bucks seem a worthy investment.

Two days later and the SAARC boys have flown (or fled) back to their homelands. I am seated in office, reminiscing my trip via blogpost. Hikka didn't rock like it was supposed to, but many parts of it did turn out to be rather special in an odd way. Perhaps, just perhaps, I might go back for a second look... once the throng of Colombites have left it and it has detoxed into it's natural, calm self once more. I shall take less outfits next time around and possibly stay away from the raves. But for now, it's back to the real life and all its stress.

By the way, the more I read my own writing, the more alarmed I am that I am turning into my mother. Ew.

I'm A Copycat

I was inspired by DeeCee, who was inspired by Gutterflower, who is quite inspired to begin with.
It's supposed to stimulate my creativity. Lets see how it goes:

I remember everything that hurt in my childhood.

I don't understand humans sometimes.

I want to know what I want.

I hate being told who to be.

I wonder if I'll ever be truly happy.

I have this weird ability to KNOW what you're really like inside.

I know this world and our lives are just a smidgen in the greater scheme of things.


And because I'd like to stimulate my creativity even further:

I wish human beings would open their eyes

I love animals

I won't ever let anyone change me again.

I think I'm capable of far more in every way.

R.I.P. Conscience

Today started out awful. The fact that I didn't get any sleep last night didn't help to control my reactions to the morning's happenings either.

So there I was, yawning and dilly-dallying on my office PC whilst trying to look busy and important when commotion struck. The entire department started shrieking and running around like hell had suddenly opened up at their feet. I craned my neck over my short cubicle wall to see what the Kraeken looked like (because that's what they sounded like they'd just seen) when I realized through snatched bits of scream that they were running from none other than a rat. "Eeeyah! Meeyek! Meeyek!" they cacophonied, in keys that would make any 1st soprano green with envy.

'Oh jeez', I thought. Typical uneducated, pathetic response towards something that ideally should be running away from THEM. I began to roll my eyes in amusement, but stopped halfway when I saw one of my colleagues carrying a waste paper basket that was setting everyone else off. I swear if people could have jumped out of the window to get away from that basket, they would have. I understood that this basket did indeed house that ungodly creature that was making people act like a bomb had gone off. I wanted to reach in and congratulate it for this unbelievable power it had - to strike that much fear into mortal human souls by just a twitch of its whisker.
But then, as I was getting closer for a look, I heard something else that stopped my heart cold.
'Yuck... it's half dead. Eeyah look at it trying to move."

At that point, my nostrils flared and I saw red. For weeks I'd been debating and opinionating with colleagues on the injustice of having rat poison strewn around office. There was this box of poison that I tried many a time to destroy, simply because I am of the view that of all the ways to kill a rat (if you must), poison is by far the cruellest and vilest way to do it. Why? Because what those cute little pink and blue pellets do are act as blood thinners that make the little creatures bleed internally till they burst. Their organs will deteriorate bit by painful bit while they still remain alive to feel every milisecond of that agony, and the poison will also parch them. With time and water drunk out of thirst, they die. In the most horrible, painful way. It is a far more humane thing to kill them with a severe blow to the head or let a trap sever their neck, or even knock them out with cyanide than to give them this stuff. And that has been my argument point for along time now.... not that anyone cared for it.

With smoke coming out of my ears I peeked into the basket, and then nearly screamed myself. Not out of fear, but pure indignation at what I saw. This wasn't the large, viscious, ugly pestilence that everyone was shouting about. It was a beautiful baby mouse, a palm-sized ball of soft brown fur and enormous eyes with a pastel pink nose, delicate ears and tiny paws, suffering and dying.
As I stared at it, it stared back at me, immobilized out of both fear and pain. I swear I saw tears in its eyes.

There was a moment where time stopped and I ceased to hear anything around me. The baby mouse and I held each others' gazes and I could almost hear its dying gasps and failing hearbeat in my mind. Then reality swept in and I saw my colleague swinging the basket towards the window, from where he intended to drop the dying animal down two floors.

I don't know how it happened, but that basket ended up in my hands almost instantly, and I heard myself shouting obscenities at the shrieking harpies around me. I could see some of them itching to laugh out loud at my anguish, but I didn't care. They were too dumb to fathom that rat or no rat, diseased or not, this was a life. Like any other life. It was a living, breathing, feeling soul that was now writhing in an agony that only I seemed to empathize with at that point. "Drown it!" they kept shrieking. "Make it drink water and it'll die quicker" yet others adviced, softening a bit at the sight of my purple face. I rushed the mouse, basket and all, out of the office to a large canal-like drain outside.

Once outside, I stepped into the drain, reached into the basket and took the little baby into my hands. It could hardly move, and I could see its little chest palpitating in an effort to breath. I stroked it's pretty baby head to calm it down and let it know it was in hands that cared, and not those that hated. It kept looking at me trustingly, willing me to ease its pain. I didn't know what to do, except start bawling and crying like a newborn in the middle of that damned drain. That must have been some sight for the passers by. In the midst of the sobbing, I offered it some water but it refused. So I found a shady, cool patch under some growing weeds on the side of the drain, and laid it down to die in as much peace as I could offer it. But when I tried to take my hands away, one perfect pink paw reached out and held on to my pinky, not wanting me to go. You wouldn't believe it unless you'd been there. Cue more uncontrollable sobbing, that had by now collected a sizeable audience of curious trishaw drivers and amused workmen from across the street. Not wanting to watch its suffering anymore and not knowing what else I could do, I left it there and went back upstairs, to spend some time in the office bathroom using up an entire tissue box on my snot and tears. Soon after, two colleagues who thought me strange but were concerned for my mental state nevertheless, made me sit in the kitchen with them for about an hour and talk my sorrows out to them. We discussed the value of life - any life-, and how cruel humans can be. After about an hour, when I had composed myself enough to not look like a batty woman crying over a rodent, I went down with one sympathetic friend to find my (yes... I had claimed ownership by then) baby mouse dead. The water in the drain had risen upto his nose, and in his immobile state, he had drowned in it's mud. I took it's broken and stiff little body back into my hands and buried it in the office carpark. Then I went back to my seat and cried some more.

But why should you care about this entire spiel, you ask. It's a damned rat. That's what you do to rats, you argue. They carry disease, you explain.

All true... but do you go around killing humans who are infectious too? Shall we poison the next case of leprosy we see? Have all those millions of Indians who feed and worship rats in their temples died of rat disease? Did this baby mouse even HAVE disease in him? And what gives us the right to use a device like poison and kill so inhumanely anyway?

Don't be a hypocrite, you say. You eat meat, don't you Dramaqueen? Aren't you endorsing murder then?

I wish I knew why I can't convert to vegetarianism, I answer. I will, one day. But killing for food is not quite the same as killing for sport or for hate. Or were you going to eat the baby mouse?

Which book of rules sorts out lives into the categories of valuable and disposable? Why are animals less deserving of the right to live, or quality of life, than humans? Why must we respect one death and not the other?

You can call me a raving loony, but you know... as much as you don't understand me right now, I don't understand you. I wish I could open your eyes and make you see yourself the way I see you.

You'd be disgusted too.

My only solace is that someday, every soul that has caused unjust suffering, be it towards a rat or a person, will suffer equally if not more. I have that much trust in God and the universe.

And right now, in my ridiculous state of mind, I am willing that baby mouse to reincarnate into the next generation's animal rights activist.

Go Po!!

Panda powerrrr!!!! I'm still chuckling.

The boyhalf and I have this thing we've developed, for attending every movie premiere that hits town. That's not alot, seeing as how we have only three viable cinemas screening non-sexual English content, but nevertheless it's become a cool date thing to do.

I'd been waiting since Jan for KungFu Panda to come to SL, so it was no wonder that I was e-ticket's very first customer on the day they finally put them tix up for sale online. We both like the 'I' row.... 13 and 14 - best seats in the room. I ruined anyone else's chances of booking those hallowed bum-rests almost two weeks before the show was scheduled to start.

Aney it was awesome and beyond cute men. I'm SO glad I listened to my lust for all things animated , rather than the dunderheads who kept trying to discourage me from seeing the movie. "It's not that hot', they said. "It disappoints", they pontificated.

Pandashit. It rocked. Despite the anti-climatic ending.

I absolutely loved all the little moments laden with subtle jokes - the witty references to Chinese customs; like using pigs, ducks and rabbits as the townsfolk in the movie, the 'Peking Duck' for a noodle-shop dad (did anyone get that? I laughed my head of when I saw him), the 1000 year old tortoise, the acupuncture....

And what about those few touches that added that much more magic to the who animation? The slight geriatric shivering of the old tortoise, the expressions brought out through the characters' eyes, etc. Very sweetly done.

Watching the movie took me back to my days as a bumbling newbie at my Tae-Kwon-Do class. No one thought the skinny white girl could last as long as she did - which wasn't that long, but it was longer than expected for sure. I went through pretty much the same self-realization process as Po did, painfully hobbling out of that class, more adept at punching people and managing more that five push ups, whilst understanding what my purpose in the universe was; that of someone who wasn't meant to learn Karate.

I do hope the take-off from this movie is that actual Panda conservation efforts benefit that much more, and the creature's value goes up amongst the international community. This is an ideal opportunity for the Chinese govenrment to showcase as well as understand the importance of its dwindling Panda population.

So good on ya, Dreamworks! Keep it up. I can't wait to watch the next venture....

Have You Seen Her?

Lost :
Missing spirit. Wild and carefree, full of smiles and sincere laughter. Last seen wearing a laid-back attitude to life and an enviable sense of self-satisfaction. Known to be the life of the party and the most understanding nature around. Oozing with the appeal of a confident, independent woman with no qualms about fighting for what she wants in life. Rarely cries. Never confused. Easily thrilled by excitement, glamour and surprise. Can dance away any care with ease and is a joy to be with. Enjoys every second of existence to the fullest.

Answers to none, except my name.

Finders will be rewarded handsomely with a lifetime of gratitude and a month's supply of some smashing chocolate brownies.

Your Methods vs . My Methods

Watch me as I now proceed to become very unpopular with this righteous broom allegedly stuck up my nether region.

This post goes out to all the boozers, smokers, weedheads and druggies out there. Why do you do what you do? That's more of a question borne out of sheer curiosity than a snobbish remark. Is it an escape mechanism? A social necessity? An addiction?

I've been watching my world very closely for some time. The more I grow up, the more people I know who drink, smoke and do drugs. Hell, I've even been guilty of some of it myself, not so long ago. I used to be a heavy boozer by my own standards, so much so that at one point of life it was difficult to go by for a day without getting high. Not many know about that side of my life... and those who do, laugh in disbelief or mockery, not really convinced that my standards are as extensive as theirs. The fact of the matter remains that, from drinking socially while out with friends, I ended up having more than a few sips on a daily basis and ultimately hiding things from my loved ones whilst knowingly boozing when I shouldn't. Because as much as I hated the bitter taste of the stuff, I loved being high. My cares went away. I was an 'adult', doing adult things. I was witty... I was raunchy... I was friendly... I was free.

In retrospect, I was also pretty stupid.

I don't think I came to the point of an addiction (thankfully), because one fine day I told myself that getting high was just overrated and I managed to stop cold. This resulted in a few months of absolute inner hell that I am proud to have expertly covered up from the rest of the world, lest the gravity of my problem put the people I cared for off me. I suffered quite a number of withdrawal symptoms - mood swings, irritability, fevers, high levels of depression, etc. But eventually I kicked the want for liquor in my system. Sometimes I miss being high, and still desperately want to take that one sip that will satisfy me... but I don't allow myself to go that far, because I'm afraid of going back to being ashamed of myself and my lack of willpower.

What I went through is nothing compared to the thousands of recovering serious alcoholics... my drinking didn't even border on addiction, so I can just imagine how much harder it is for those who've gone further than I have to get back to soberdom.

What's really funny is that even the most addicted soul knows that what he/she is doing is bad. Much like we know that murder is bad, or rape is bad. Addiction is bad. The effects of tobacco, marijuana, alcohol or whatever else we use is bad- for our bodies, for our mind and for our lives in the long run. Even though we may not be heavily addicted to the stuff, we know we love it and couldn't possibly live without it. We know this, but we still go ahead and do it. Why? Why do we continuously lust after that delirous feeling of getting high, when we know it's not good for us? Honestly, tell me... can you really put your hand up and defend the stuff? Can you actually tell me that drugs, ciggies and drinks are the only ways to be happy or cool?

I don't know why the thought of people smoking up affects me as much as it does. I'm almost ashamed and embarrassed to confess that I'm not as cool a girl as I thought, to be so discombobulated over the fact that people smoke weed. What's so wrong with it, I ask myself a million times. I know so many others who do, and I never had this prude attitude about it before. Everyone and their grannies do it nowadays... and weed is not a hard drug... in fact, it's even medicinal! So why the devil doesn't it sit well with me? And why should I be such a fusspot about it... Do I really need to be such a case about it?

Why the gajeebers can't I let it go and chill? It's not my business, right?

Perhaps because I know that, of all forms of escape that a person can use, these are the worst? That alcohol, tobacco and weed have become adult society's mandatory and necessary evils, much like war? That as much pleasure it gives us now, it is slowly but surely fucking up our minds, lungs, kidneys, livers and hearts bit by gooey bit?

But who cares. We live for the day, right? And nothing comes close to the sensations of being well and truly high.

Doubtless this post will spark off quite a number of heated comments. Don't worry... these are only my personal thoughts, and I am not trying to shove them down your throats. I don't want to convert you into the boring lifeless sod that I am. I envy your fuck-all carefree attitude on this matter. It's a lot more fun than singing a song to relieve your mind. Everyone's entitled to their own choices in life.

But really... why do we do it? And again... that's curiosity speaking and inviting discussion.

Feet, Sand and Sleep

Mondays suck. They should outlaw Mondays.

Especially after rather nice weekends.

Saturday was a 'me day', with the BF out of town and no work commitments to stress over. It's been some time since I took a whole day to myself... 'twas bliss to say the least.

I started the day with an appointment for plucking. By this I mean that all-important monthly ritual women masochistically undergo to look and feel nice... that awful word that sends shivers down the spines of men who think they're all that but are really not- waxing. Yeah, baby. Legs and arms, that's the way to go. The one hour's experience of having your body hair ripped out unceremoniously after having doused hot wax over it first is an excruciating exercise that's totally worth the effort and gritting of teeth, in my books. There's a sense of accomplishment that I get every time I walk out of that salon with my skin feeling sexy and as smooth as a baby's bottom. "I survived waxing", I silently claim to the world as I sashay like a drunken cat to my car, nearly tripping over a grate on the way.

Please. Give me my little moments of heroism, ok?

So after de-furring myself I happily (and somewhat painfully) chugged off to 'Foot Comfort' at the Crescat Mall to enjoy a much-awaited-for foot massage. The boyfwend was a darling to have gifted me a voucher for the place, knowing full well how I adore every chance to get my toes pummelled. To all those who yearn a good foot massage but are not able to afford the likes of a posh spa that costs your (or your husband's) annual salary for a single session, I fully recommend 'Foot Comfort'. Granted, they are not cheap per say, with a 20-minute foot therapy session costing 850 bucks, but your feet will tell you afterwards that it's money well spent.

I love that place. Especially their large, ultra-comfy reclining leather bedseats, into which I gratefully sank and dozed off in while a soldier-like woman rubbed, kneaded and squeezed my feet to a peaceful trance. I hate the feeling of having a foot rub come to an end and having to walk away after it. The whole exercise of sending yourself into a massaged utopia just becomes redundant at that point.

But walk I did, feet looking clean and smelling like peppermint, because there's a limit to the hospitality that even Foot Comfort will shower you with once your session is over.

A lazy browse through the bookshop (I do love to park myself inside bookshops... don't you?) and a plate of sushi later, I went back home. This mostly because there really isn't a single place for a single female in SL to go to and just be, besides her bedroom. It's a sad state of affairs, and gave me the brainwave to someday open up a cosy little cafe just for women, with private meditative booths for girls who want to get away from it all for a couple of hours and read books or contemplate on girly things. I even thought of calling the place PMS.
Anyway, given that no current alternative was available ( I really WISH we had an inexpensive place to just go chill out in alone, away from people or noise.), I toddled off home and locked myself in my bedroom and settled down for a good read. Even the cat was not welcome.
It was lovely... within seconds of opening my new book I'd dozed off only to wake up that evening, hungry for dinner.

The alone time I gave myself put me in a good mood, so I magnanimously offered to take Mum and Slimy Sibling out to dinner. Decided to try out 'Loon Tao' on the Mount Lavinia beach, because I'd heard good things about the place.

To give you a quick personal review of Loon Tao :

Pros

1. The food is excellent (yummy, tasty, well presented, delicious, etc., etc.)
   
2. The food is very reasonably priced
   
3. The ambience is really nice
4. The waiters are friendly

Cons

1. The walk between the parking area and the restaurant is a bit of an exercise. (but that's alright, coz you obviously can't be expected to drive and park on the beach)
2. The security guard at the official carpark is an incompetent, rude, obnoxious arse who doesn't really give a damn about you or your vehicle's safety. (Yes... I had a run-in with the man)
3. The food takes a LOOOOONG time to come to you, once ordered. But that could have been circumstances on the night I went there.
4. If you choose a table on the sand, you will sink when your ass meets that chair.
   

But all in all a visit worth making, and one that I will definitely make again.

And thus ended my Saturday. I was very pleased with myself and day... I must remember to give myself some time off more often.

Now... if only there weren't any Mondays that follow....