Deeper Underground Sri Lanka

Bugger me roughly with a poleaxe if life can’t be an unyielding bitch at times. Man, 27 and still living at home, your average free-spirited space-seeker tends to want said space to himself sometimes. Moving out is the obvious option but it does seem to be a tad Everestlike at times.

Take for instance, landlords: your average Sri Lankan homeowner is usually very reluctant to let their property out to locals. This is doubly so when said locals consist of four individuals of the opposite sexes. “No, no, that’ s just not done” is the rallying cry behind which all these snivelling buggers hide, whilst blithely renting out their premises to anyone of a vaguely foreign description, be they hetero, homo or paedo; married, unmarried or buggering their pet canary on a daily basis.

Fucking residual colonialism in this country, man.

Anyway, finally find a willing landlord who’s not just agreeable because their property is roach-infested hovel on the borders of slum central, haunted by a headless chicken ridden by a demented spectral infant. Then you have the problem of telling the biddies. Oh God, the drama, the tears, the wailing and gnashing of teeth; and of course, the inevitable litany of every single wrong you’ve done from the first moment you soiled your huggies aged 0.2. This, liberally laced with the old rallying cry favoured by aforementioned landlords.

Bite your tongue, grit your teeth, get through it stoically and finally achieve the right to freedom.

Then, your prospective roomies start backing out one by one when faced with the realities of expenses. Okay, don’t push, just try and convince them rationally. Just as it kind of works, a bombshell drops from somewhere. The worst kind is when one roomy’s sister rings you up at 12.45am to give you a guilt trip about how you shouldn’t be encouraging their sibling to do silly things and how their mother would unleash the demons of hell on their heads in retaliation.

Fuck it. Get defensive for a bit:- after all, you never did have to persuade said sibling, in fact you didn’t even include her originally, she simply made you feel bad until you agreed to let her in on the deal too. Next, sulk for another half an hour. Finally, decide to act mature about the whole boiling mess and decide to speak to said sibling in the morrow and sort it out.

Which, in a roundabout manner brings us straight back to square one where we find ourselves back in our room at home venting onto a keyboard at 1.30am.

Fucking hell.

Deeper Underground: Moving Out in Colombo Bugger me roughly with a poleaxe if life can’t be an unyielding bitch at times. Man, 27 and still living at home, your average free-spirited space-seeker tends to want said space to himself sometimes. Moving out is the obvious option but it does seem to be a tad Everestlike at times. Take for instance, landlords: your average Sri Lankan homeowner is usually very reluctant to let their property out to locals. This is doubly so when said locals consist of four individuals of the opposite sexes. “No, no, that’ s just not done” is the rallying cry behind which all these snivelling buggers hide, whilst blithely renting out their premises to anyone of a vaguely foreign description, be they hetero, homo or paedo; married, unmarried or buggering their pet canary on a daily basis. Fucking residual colonialism in this country, man. Anyway, finally find a willing landlord who’s not just agreeable because their property is roach-infested hovel on the borders of slum central, haunted by a headless chicken ridden by a demented spectral infant. Then you have the problem of telling the biddies. Oh God, the drama, the tears, the wailing and gnashing of teeth; and of course, the inevitable litany of every single wrong you’ve done from the first moment you soiled your huggies aged 0.2. This, liberally laced with the old rallying cry favoured by aforementioned landlords. Bite your tongue, grit your teeth, get through it stoically and finally achieve the right to freedom. Then, your prospective roomies start backing out one by one when faced with the realities of expenses. Okay, don’t push, just try and convince them rationally. Just as it kind of works, a bombshell drops from somewhere. The worst kind is when one roomy’s sister rings you up at 12.45am to give you a guilt trip about how you shouldn’t be encouraging their sibling to do silly things and how their mother would unleash the demons of hell on their heads in retaliation. Fuck it. Get defensive for a bit:- after all, you never did have to persuade said sibling, in fact you didn’t even include her originally, she simply made you feel bad until you agreed to let her in on the deal too. Next, sulk for another half an hour. Finally, decide to act mature about the whole boiling mess and decide to speak to said sibling in the morrow and sort it out. Which, in a roundabout manner brings us straight back to square one where we find ourselves back in our room at home venting onto a keyboard at 1.30am. Fucking hell.