One metre above sea level

So if it’s an orange––it looks like an orange, it tastes like an orange––but it’s green... is it an orange? Dodunduwa, the small town on the South West coast, which translates in a way to orange-island, or green-orange-island, gave us plenty of time to debate the terms with its 97-year-old procession creating a three hour tail of trucks, buses, tuks and tractors. Stuck on the single lane old Galle Road we were witness to the snaking parade of feverish dancing, drumming and whipping; children, adults, ceremonial transvestism; ghouls, fairies, butterflies.

Then, at a point along the coast came a clearing with a gleaming, looming likeness of Buddha––a young, lean, gender non-specific representation, arm poised in something between a stop sign and scout’s honour. ADSW tells me its impressive height is to mark the crest of the 2004 Tsunami. It’s so damn tall it's difficult to fathom and I question what the metre-high sea walls built along parts of the coast could have done to stop it. Strange. I’ve always hoped nature will win. But not like this. Here my fantasy was pitted against the wrong people. The sea now is rough on shore, but there’s little swell. The land lies flat. The humidity is heavy. Out near the horizon the ocean looks to be levitating. I’m hot and the sweating might be making me crazy.

Back in the city, it’s a head-spin of a different kind. Every second person in Silk is smoking. The DJ plays bad EDM. A bottle of Moet comes in a bucket with a live firework. I shuffle away from the Russian prostitutes for fear of being blonde by association. We’ve come from ‘ladies night’ at Café Francais to find positive discrimination also in effect at Silk. Men’s entry: 2000 rupees. ‘Ladies enter free.’

Less than a week left in SL and somehow the list is still long, though revolves mainly around cake. Thankfully my chauffeur has an extensive knowledge of Colombo's cakeries, so provided I can keep Ari Kujo entertained in the backseat, she will oblige and take on the insanity of the traffic in pursuit of our sugar hit. Tuk-Tuks spar and constantly set off all four-corner sensors of this European car, mahoots hang from open bus doors directing their maddening drivers to disregard police instruction, despite their incredibly funky oversized white vinyl gloves with large red 'stop' circle in the palm. I mutter Hey-Zeus under my breath a thousand times a day and desperately try and avoid being the person who teaches our cutey Kujo the 'F' word.

In what is a sign of the times, we picked from the 'posh' options, ending up at Silk.