It’s raining. No, scratch that, it’s bloody pouring. Cats, dogs, monkeys, goats and all manner of fauna are descending from the heavens.
One might think that this is the time when Sri Lankan women bring out their umbrellas. Umbrella season, so to speak.

You’d be wrong. It’s always umbrella season here. No matter what happens, no matter where you go you will always find short women with those bloody umbrellas out. They wield those  things like ye older knights wield their shields: regardless of road, shade, pedestrian traffic or actual usefulness.  Any poor sods unlucky enough to be nearby (inevitable on, say, a crowded day in Maharagama) will be stabbed repeatedly in the face by the sharp pointy ends. It’s the males who bear the brunt of this assault: other women avoid damage by neatly deflecting with their own umbrellas. Street Fighter hasn’t got a patch on the window shoppers in Pamunuwa.

I’m lucky. I’m tall, therefore I get poked around chin height. Everybody else mostly gets direct hits to the eye. TKO. The general effect is that of being pecked to death by a bunch of fat, rude crows.

Yesterday, after a particularly lengthy bout with two Kandurata umbrellas, one Rainco and one horrible mess with flowers on it, I managed to break free and board the CTB for Hokandara. Ah. Deep breaths. Safe house reached. Sit down. Pull out le auxiliary phone (a Nokia. Carrying one’s Blackberry Storm in my pocket in public is downright impossible, unless one want to give the impression that he’s grown a second dick.)

Insert headphones. Find Skrillex. Listen.
Bus starts. Rude noise from up above.The driver, in his infinite wisdom, has started up a horrible “Biscuit Kudu” rendition at full volume. And I’m sitting right under the speaker.

Just one more day in Colombo.

 

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