All About Love

It'll be midnight soon, and this is my last blog entry of the year. And I want it to be about love. Because deep inside, I'm still an old softy who believes that love can really rock mountains. It might not be true, but I don't want to hear. I will believe what I want to believe. And the coming year seems to be going a lot down the love road. Plenty of drama, all in the name of love. I will not turn down the Ms title though. That's a little too much to ask. Perhaps I'm finally taking the plunge and at the old ripe age of 36 (which is the age I'll be next year, not this year) will be doing the things which other girls have done at 26. It seems destined to happen next year, not this year. And I will finally be made an honest woman at 36. I'm not sure people do that at 36, but well who says I can't. So it'll be loving a man, loving the cats, loving the dogs, loving my twin loving my very few friend, loving the little people, loving the music of life and love...

The bob woman

I clean forgot. Today while TV zapping at my mum's, my hand took a break as the picture on the plasma rested on the bob woman preaching about alcohol and driving. So far so good, but I really could have thrown my shoes (Nike ones this time) at the screen, though my guess is that my dad wouldn't have been too pleased about his daughter hurling a size 41 pair of Nike's at his plasma screen. Although dad is a very understanding person. But then maybe he wouldn't be very understanding if that had to happen. But this woman who always has the same prim and proper hairstyle, only now she's upgraded or downgraded it to a wispy bob gets under my skin. Her hairstyle could be straight out of an s & M shop in London's Soho. Especially when she's run out of words to say and decides to open telephone lines. And then she suddenly gets even more prim and proper and oh so clever. She even smiles the knowing smile which stands for oh-I'm-so-good-at-this. But she's not. She cannot very well string enough decent Maltese words to make a sentence, that's one thing she sucks at. Secondly, smiling as if there were no tomorrow when talking about serious things like alcoholism, drug abuse and any other kind of abuse is not on. Then comes that false head laugh at some really silly joke she's trying to share with herself. And people like these are put in charge of delicate posts, while their paycheck comes out of my taxes. That's sad. And I understand that it is difficult for hosts having a magazine midday programme to find actual people who will come and talk on their show. But perhaps they should try and get real people, like the man who sells peanuts at Valletta's City Gate. Oh he'll look grubby and shabby, but he'll be for real. And that would be a breath of fresh air.

girl vs boy

My good friend Claire has just called to wish me a Happy New Year. She's a good girl, not good as in boring, but good as in faithful that's for certain. And I feel suddenly so very lonely although I'm not alone. This house with all its assets and red walls needs a something else. Ok, it's not the house needing the something else, but myself. But I am too scared to do what other people see as natural because I secretly think that perhaps God is shielding me from something ugly. There it goes again, the fear. Which is strange seeing I didn't even have a tiny bit of caution to throw to the wind 15 years ago. I had no fear and I loved danger. I loved risking life. Now, I want my settled lifestyle and nothing to tamper with it. Because I'm too scared of what could happen. There are no guarantees in life and I am still not ready to take the plunge. The word risk scares me too much. If only somebody could give me at least a one year guarantee, then I'd go for it. But nobody will and nobody can give me that. And it has now boiled down to the - would I rather regret not having done that, than regret having done it? And it's at these times I wish I were a man. No I am not turning homosexual, a transvestite, or even queuing up for a sex change. I like being a girl. But men have it that much easier. I would never trade in my long hair, my hips which ooze fertility (judging by Mata's Goddess of Fertility), or my nails. I am a girl and I like being a girl and no I do not want another girl as a lover. I comply totally with what the world likes, I am heterosexual, and always have been. And I am not about to change direction now. Of course I find no problem with gay people whatever the gender because I embrace diversity. But, I am a girl who likes boys and that should be the text-book type of woman. At least I think so. And at least that is what my biology books said in form 5. Or perhaps it would have been easier had I liked girls instead? Because then the question of having babies would never be a question. But I cannot, really really cannot see myself with a girl. Sorry world, I'm like the bees and the birds, I'm girl likes boy and I cannot do anything about it. It isn't that difficult to live with, but then the inevitable subject pops up, especially when it's a 35 year old girl likes boy. I have till now, resisted all the things in the text book, but it's another new year coming, and somehow this is all I can think about.

New Year's Eve

I guess it would be appropriate to look back on 2008 and think about it. Everybody's doing this, the people on face book, the people on TV, the important VIP. But I do not care for other people. Ok that doesn't sound quite right. What I mean is that I do not care what other people do, I certainly will not follow others just for the sake of following. I do not want to look back on 2008. And I do not want to look at 2009. What's done is done, and what's to be is to be. I don't like New Year's Eves very much. i find it useless looking back, and I cannot look forward to something which is out of reach. If I had a magic crystal ball, then it would be easier, but then I don't want to know the future either. Future scares me; it could be filled with joy and happiness, and it could be filled with the opposite of joy and happiness. And I would welcome joy and happiness, but I don't want to know when and which bomb will be dropped at my door come next year. All I know, and I don't know for sure either, is that I am about to age by another year, and the dreaded 40 is not very far away. New Year's Eve, though, is never a bubbly eve, somehow, it creates a poignant atmosphere. I will probably have to decide a lot of life-changing things in 2009, things, which I have managed to put on hold. But there is not much time left for on-hold putting. I am getting older and I don't like admitting it. It's a time when I want my family all close, especially my twin, who will be one of those braving the cold, greeting in the New Year with style. I'm not sure what he's doing, but it's bound to be a stylish welcome New Year where everyone will be drunk. That's another reason why I don't like New Year's Eves. Because since I don't drink, people automatically think I'm driving, and no I am not driving to and fro, and risking people getting sick in my car. I did enough of that on Christmas Eve, the getting sick in the car that is. I'm not repeating it tonight. So here I sit with my Tancred on the monitor, my Ding terrorising the scratching post, my other cats running around, and my other half chopping things up for a New Year's breakfast. Oh have I been blessed with an in-house chef. And it seems rude to stay up here writing, but I'll be back. If there is just one thing I'm sure of it's just that.

Supermarkets

I have just about finished running all errands for 2008. Well I didn't actually run, but I managed just the same. How I hate this errand-running thing. And one thing which continues to mystify me is the thing about other women running the same things. They look so sophisticated, all made up at an unearthly time of 11am. Why would anyone plaster themselves in make up just to buy sausages? Is it necessary to carry a tiny Burberry handbag which is not big enough to fit anyone's set of keys? It's mundane shopping for Christ's sake, what are they going to put in it, an onion perhaps? It's so silly. Now one thing which isn't silly is my Chanel shopping bag which is big enough for anything, and yet I don't use it to go to the supermarket. I hate supermarkets. If I could, I'd go in my pyjamas. Seriously. I really don't know what all the excitement is about. And then I don't understand the reason for dolling up either. Who would I want to impress, the one behind the delicatessen counter? Oh no, no thanks. The thought that a potential boyfriend would have his fingers stuck in cheese all day long is not exciting. Or in some garlicky sausage. Or whatever it is that's soft. I'm soft enough. The thought is enough to make me book myself in for sex therapy, and even that wouldn't work. No, he'd have got to go. There is no way I could ever see myself in this. But, and it's just a thoughtful but, the way single men (single through a failed marriage) seem to be getting very popular in supermarkets, well, then that is a thought. They can be identified by a mile, they just walk up and down pushing the trolley as if the trolley were an extension of their something else which is by far smaller than the trolley. They look out of place, confused, and then some made up woman crosses their path. And there it is in the most primitive of forms, the confused man suddenly turns to look, and he's not confused anymore. So perhaps supermarkets could be the newest place for dating. But then I too am confused, I too drag a trolley looking stupid. And I don't think the trolley is an extension, because I don't have that something else smaller than the trolley. If anything, I have something else, and that is the being practical. I just will never date anybody within the supermarket walls. Because there are expiry dates, and I will never be shaking things to look at the very little coded, computerised date. Because they're in a tin, and I want bigger than that.

Cat gourmet

I've come back here after having a lovely shower, minus the hair of course. My cats are not very pleased with me though. I think they're hungry, no, let me rephrase that, they cannot be hungry since they have a supply of the best brand of cat food in town always available. But they are spoilt little creatures, especially the tiniest cat of the lot which will never grow up to an adult-sized cat seeing she is a mutant, the product of two incestuous cats, brother and sister. She might be small in size, but not in the vocal stakes. She also does not how to wait. And whenever it pleases her, she just comes up to me wailing. And that means, I have to stop whatever I'm doing and give her them the most expensive-on-the-market food which comes in pouches. These cats always have three course meals. They fare better then the patients at Mater Dei. But it's my fault. Because it was a strange theory I had and still adopt. These feline beauties didn't ask to come to me. They could have gone anywhere, probably on the streets. But since they came to me, then I have to give them the best. The best in everything. So off I go to obey the cats, mostly the tiniest cat in the house which falls just below 2 kg in weight. Sometimes truth is stranger then fiction.

The twin- win

I've been away for quite a while today; away from my blog. But at least I had good reason to; shopping, eating (at my mum's) and sleeping, and then letting my Nigel do the hairy magic trick. Ok that sounds gory, I am not hirsute, not one bit. But yes I am proud of my glorious mane which now hangs to below my waist. And yes it's a fiery red, which is not my natural colour, not one bit, but it's still up to Nigel to do the hairy bit. Oh dear, that bloke is an angel sent from heaven. The way he can tease locks into perfect magazine-like styles is a mystery. And there I used to think that beautiful hair came naturally. But now I'm thinking perhaps there is a Nigel-man behind the magazine. There has to be, I don't think any woman wakes up with perfect hair like mine is now. This hair subject has always been so close to home, close to heart too. I find no plausible reason why the hair thing is something so dear both to me and my twin. My other half, he's not bothered, he doesn't have hair in the first place and is really happy not to have to bother with bad hair days. But us twins, well, my hair is showing no signs of going anywhere, my twin is not so lucky. Of course with the Nigel magic, he makes it look as if his hair is not going anywhere either, but it's such a gimmick. He probably has 80% less hair than I do. Hurray, for once I win the twin competition. I also seem to win the never-a-blackhead competition, I never have any so that's two competitions. Phase three of the competition is the wrinkle one, my twin has so many more 'laughter lines' than I do, so again hurray I win that too. I win another one, the nose one, but let's stop at there. That's 4 already. And I guess the big win of all; if the world had to go to war I would survive him. He wouldn't last long. I would, I'd last quite a long time, probably one hundred times longer than him. So, put the Atkins away, I'd live to see the imaginary war being over. Not that it would please me. I always secretly wonder who will be the first to go. Sometimes I make myself sad over it. I have not yet grown out of the twice-a-month nightmare which has been happening for a good 25 years now. The nightmare where my twin is gone and I am left there, twin no more. And it's not a nice feeling. Sometimes there's blood in it, sometimes there isn't, but it always gives me the feeling that whatever happens in the dream could have been prevented. Or perhaps the smoking will see to it that I go first. Much better that way. Stopping here, I don't like where this is going. So off to face book for a bit.

Awake

Good morning. I have just realised that being the doting mum that I was yesterday night brings with it responsibilities. Yes it's just half past nine and I'm up and fully awake. Brigitte's here and that's a responsibility because my other half decided to lock the house with the keys inside the lock. Henceforth (I so love this word) Brigitte could not get into the house unobtrusively with myself still wrapped up in my cosy world. So I had a responsibility, that is to kick myself out of bed, travel in descending mode and open the door. So now after two coffees I'm more than awake. But I'm putting off going into the outside world because everybody is saying how cold it is; face book is full of people saying so. As for myself, I cannot comment because I don't yet know.

I am thinking to myself. These holidays are somehow strange. Perhaps it's the cold or something else, but I'm reluctant to venture outside if it's not for shopping. I'm not very good at parties, I have to work on this come New Year. I suck at socialising, all the more so if it's socialising with new people. Thank heavens for my long hair, I can hide behind it. And then when I'm comfortable enough I can make an appearance by putting my hair back. It's like a hide and seek thing. As if hair or no hair would hide me anyway, but that's how it feels. I guess I'm regressing into toddler mode, the one when a toddler thinks that hiding his face is also hiding himself. My oh my I seem to be getting younger then. Next will be baby words, but I'll never cry for milk, I hate it anyhow. I hated it always. It's not fair on us, the ones who hate milk, to be force-fed that white liquid since day one. Of course I'd throw it up again and again, because it was the only sign I could give my mum not to do it anymore. She never picked up on it though, and so the throwing up never ceased, and there she was being so anxious that I wouldn't grow up like other kids. Mum, hello? I've grown up all right, without the milk. If only I could have somehow told her that there is just one place where I like milk, and that is in dairy milk chocolate. Nowhere else. It's been this way for 35+ years and my guess is it won't change anytime soon, because old habits are too hard to die. And somehow I am sifting through the habits and thinking there isn't one habit which could be deemed as good. Because all habits owned by me are in overdrive. It's best that I stay away, at least from the chocolate.

Anyway time for the good housewife in me to start running errands. I wonder why they say running. It's not as if errands wear a Nike pair of shoes, a tracksuit and start competing for the marathon. Well, so long.

Tancred

I think I have a clever cat. A very very clever one. Now I have 6 of them, and they're all clever and so beautiful. Because they're my cats so that's how I see them. I guess it's the way all mums see their kids, but seeing that kids have never come my way, then I have to dote on something don't I? And since it doesn't hurt anybody then it's all right. Please note though, I am not that kind of spinster who has never known men (as in male human beings), or the spinster who has something against men (as in male human being), and turns all of her affection, time, and love to cats. Yes I love my cats to bits, but I have also known men, through friendship, through boyfriends, through intimacy, and no I have nothing against men. Oh no, men make life interesting. That's the reason they were sent into the world, to amuse people like me. They were also sent to love people like me, and they do. But I still love cats. And one cat in particular is getting very clever, he'd probably get a degree in the Cat World overnight. He's that clever. So this cat called Tancred has realised that my monitor is a warm place, so warm that just after a minute it is switched on, he makes his way through my clutter and onto the monitor. And there he rests for as long as I do. And it's almost scary, he goes into a sleep so deep that almost nothing wakes him up. And I worry about him, because it becomes a very hot sleepy cat in the process. So I worry he might catch a cold, in the same way mums pile on clothes on their kids for fear of cat-ching a cold. But, out of all the six feline creatures sharing my home, Tancred is the only one who has realised that my monitor serves his purpose as an electric blanket. And he won't even have to pay the Enemalta bill. Now if that isn't clever, I don't know what is? Am I right to be a very pleased doting mum?

Addictions

It's so damn cold that I have thought twice about pulling up my cardigan sleeve to type and have a smoke as a good excuse. Ok so smoking is not a good excuse but a bad one, but I'm done anyway. It appears to me that one can tell the future of whether one will be a smoker or not. The first cigarette one smokes in life is vital. If you think you're going to throw up with your first puff, then that's it, smoker no more. However if you think that the first puff is so good that you want more, well, that's it, smoker confirmed. And I still remember perfectly well where it happened, and who gave me my first puff. Very shamefully it was in St. John's Co-Cathedral, not on the altar of course but in a hidden nook just behind the restrooms. I have kicked myself time and time again about this filthy habit, I have also tried to kick the habit. But there is no willpower because I enjoy smoking way too much to give it up. I know, sometimes I reek of the smell, but I cannot do anything about it. Love it or hate it, it comes along with me, although I do not exactly go about with some badge stuck to my chest which says, I'm brilliant because I smoke. And this is what perhaps has been a blessing. I never knew I could get addicted to a substance, not nicotine. But I have. And that is scary, because an addictive personality could get familiar with so many things, even illegal. Thankfully that is where my addiction has stopped, although I love the occasional Cadbury, but then Cadbury isn't exactly so very bad. On the contrary, I have yet to come across something made by Cadbury that was bad. Cadburdy is all so very good. I do not remember who first introduced me to Cadbury. But I do remember the one who introduced me to smoking, and I am not thanking her, not now, and not ever.

The tears

And when the fear, anger and whatever else subside, they give way to something else. Sadness. Not the intense sadness of helplessness and hopelessness, but the poignant feeling that comes with watching the coals within a real fireplace when it's about to go out and slowly put away everything into darkness. The coals. Those coals. I will never forget that feeling. And I will never forget Beethoven's 7th. Together with the coals. Suddenly the world becomes gloriously sad. Yes gloriously, because it's at that exact point when I somehow managed to accept the sadness, to accept that yes it was very sad, to accept that yes I could finally cry and sob myself silly and it didn't matter because there was no one else to listen, and nobody could ever fathom out my silhouette in the pitch black darkness. That is a part of my life. Now I accept it. But it's in the past. And although the past is what makes us who we are, we needn't get stuck there. And if it takes a hell of a lot of sobbing, then so be it, because it is only then that the glorious sadness somehow starts giving way to the something called the rest of your life. And it was also those same coals which gave me the lesson of life, and that was patience. Because sometimes we square the dose which life deals us, we multiply and multiply again, when all we need is to divide and subtract. We have a right to feel sad, and it's ok to cry. It doesn't make us lesser people. I know that, because I've been there. And I wouldn't wish the same to happen to anybody, although sometimes perhaps it would be the only thing which would work.

What about me?

I think I'm behaving like a very little child who has had her toys taken away from her. Well, at least not behaving, but thinking on the same lines. Definitely. I'm such a bad loser. But then this is no game, it doesn't include toys and yet I feel so pissed off. It's worse than that but that's the only phrase I can find which doesn't border on the obscene. I am constantly trying to prove something which isn't there. And I keep going back to the fear word. I just cannot take it. There must be a million synonyms which could have replaced that, but no, I have it in writing, the word is fear. And that is something which I will never accept. Because I don't believe it. How can a human being go from a take-me-with-you to fear in a matter of days? It could happen had I the luxury of contact, of course I could do something wrong as all human beings are subject to, but I didn't. And unless some old hag has lied so much that her hair has turned white, then I don't believe it. Of course, I cannot prove it. But it all sounds very shifty. I also probably have come to the answer as to the why, but since my blog is gathering popularity (oh la la!) then I have to keep that safely with myself. And I wonder what I should do. Do I keep harping on my mission? Or do I just convince myself that yes there are people who go through a lot in life, but it's not my fault, I didn't create the people, nor was I responsible for giving them a topsy-turvy life, so since it's not my responsibility I should just leave it and look the other way. It's not my fault after all. It *is* daunting and frustrating seeing the ball of lies rolling in the otherwise perfectly smooth stretch of snow-lies and gathering momentum. But what can I do? I have not even thought about myself, when people think it's cool to cower behind a lie. It's not cool, it's pathetic. So we think about the people, big and small. And what about me? Don't I have a right to be thought about? I understand that all is done with the intention to avoid any trauma and suffering where little people are involved. What I will never understand is that all is also done with the intention to avoid any trauma and suffering where the big people are concerned, the big people who have actually created all the trauma and suffering in the first place. Perhaps it's comfortable. Perhaps it's the law. In which case it should be changed. But if the law has intervened, then why does the law go back on it's words? Or perhaps it is not the law but somebody else. Because it's so cushier that way. And, what about me?

Books

And here I go again, I've overslept. Actually I didn't, I did kick myself up at 8 am but decided it was too cold to live outside my duvet. These duvets are such lovely things. They are weightless and yet the comfort they ooze is out of this world. So it is one thing which we cannot judge by its cover. And it's not even a book. I like books, I've liked books ever since I could probably hold one of them. I like the fact that you can delve into one, pushing the pause button on the world around you, and pressing play the minute you open the first page. I'm not sure my relationship with books was very healthy when I was young. I read a lot, probably too much, but then I think I was quite a strange kid who was bored with playing around with Playmobile. And there was this huge library at home (there still is) and when you're little it seems so grand and big. So, without anybody knowing, I started 'borrowing' a book a day from this grand old library, and because it seemed so grand, it made the 'borrowing' even more exciting. Until my mum found out and wasn't pleased. And until my dad found out and was over the moon. His daughter was showing an interest in the same things which interested him. Lovely dad. It became like a game. Let's 'borrow' and see if we can get away with it, or better put, see if we can fool mum. And it worked, I was reading a book a day. I read so much that I started hating going to school because it was so far away from all those books. What was happening, unbeknown to yours truly who was still a little girl, was that this girl was getting extremely good at a whole lot of things. Which puzzled mum, and which made dad's and my secret flourish. Until one day mum 'caught' me reading Hardy, and Greene. And since she never wanted me to grow up (something which she failed badly at), she was so mad that I, at 9, was reading, as she called them, grown-up books. And then that made it all the more exciting. And the 'borrowing' went to 'stealing'. It was still just 'borrowing' but once it was so wrong it all graduated to 'stealing'. And yes I remember reading the first part of Hardy's Tess of the D'urbervilles and not really understanding the rape scene. I understood something bad had happened to Tess, but not exactly what. I also remember being so puzzled at the priest who had a child in The Power and the Glory, and I couldn't fathom out how on earth this could have happened, since I still believed children came into the world through praying to God, and since a priest was a man of God, how did God let it happen in the first place? Oh dear, it was so confusing. But it all has made me into what I am today. I am not in any way a Slimiza who is rubbish at talking English and just as much rubbish at Maltese. We talked plain Maltese at home. And I am southerly born and bred. And yet I think I can speak good English and I'm certain that my Maltese is just as good. Speaking English to little people at home just doesn't work. So many parents do that, and yet the level of the English level falls by the year. So, to all the adult ones having little ones, give them a book instead.

Two ugly things

It's now a time when probably most of the people in Malta are asleep, or are at least winding down. But this bunch of people does not include me. It's night-time, a time for owls and bats. And I don't like owls and bats very much, but it seems I really am mimicking their lifestyle. Although my guess is that they don't like Minstrels and Mars as much as I do. But still, it makes us part of some mathematical Venn diagram which at least puts me into one sub circle. And I wonder if owls and bats like pancakes. I do, a whole lot. I'm not sure that there is a calorie which I don't like. Oh except for garlic and onions, they will never find their way to my house. They are calorie free and I hate them. Onions make me sick, garlic sends me straight to Mater Dei, both of them would have me dead in a short time. They ruin a good meal. But if all the food in the world came with garlic and onions, I'd be forced to crash diet so much as to ruin Arani Issa's reputation. It's that bad. I love chocolate, but I'd never even want to look at it if it came complete with these two ugly things like garlic and onions. They're ugly, they smell foul, they ruin what would otherwise be really good food. How do greengrocers manage to sell them at all? What marketing strategy do they use? No strategy would work on me, I'd probably turn to cat food, which incidentally smells like heaven. And no I have never tasted it.

So my other half, who has culinary skills as opposed to my non existent ones is making me a pancake downstairs. A pancake, of course without those two ugly things. And it will be good. so why are people so intent on including them? They have no place on my plate, no way. And it's not as if I have gone hungry without the ugly things. It really isn't as if I have suffered some stunted growth, not height-wise, and definitely not width-wise. My height is just fine, and I'll stop at that. So why do people keep including them and always ruining my time at dinner parties? It's almost as if thee two ugly things have something so wonderful that they make the food taste as wonderful. And people are convinced that the food tastes bland without them. Well, it doesn't. I want a fish to taste like a fish, a chicken to taste like a chicken and not like the two ugly things. So here's my prayer to God, please exterminate them from the world, make them extinct and fast. Please.

Off for my pancake.

Midday TV

Magazine TV programmes are sometimes the one thing which may lift your spirit, that is, if you're a housewife with nothing to except clean and cook. And I have nothing against housewives. To me, anybody can do anything they like as long as nobody gets hurt. And if a woman thinks that making the window panes shine is her idea of a mission in life, then so be it. And on the rare occasions that I am home at noon, I sometimes also find myself zapping on the TV remote control which inevitably will finally sit on one of these programmes. I cannot comment on the content of these programmes because being in the TV business myself I would be accused of favouritism or unfavouritsm. But let's just say that these programme can be quite informative, and easy on the brain. So yes I would be one to watch a programme like that, perhaps not every day because it would interfere with my Maury Povich, but yes I find nothing wrong with watching. The problem is that I know that sometimes TV hosts get desperate as to the people they are going to look for, people who can deliver a good interview. Sometimes it gets so bad that I really like watching for amusement's sake. Other times I like watching because some TV hosts at least try their best. whatever it is, I am a dab hand with the TV remote control, having practised so much music has its advantages, we get very nimble with our fingers. Technique is technique no matter for what medium it is used for. And no matter how bad it gets, TV hosts are always positive, so I have at least to give them that. I wouldn't be able to do it myself, my dear twin would in a snap because he always has so many words to say. I am not a girl of many words. At least of many said words. On my faithful blog, things are different, I find myself typing about I don't know what and sometimes I have to stop myself because I could go on forever, and since I have no intention of publishing blog volumes, well I have to end it at some point. Anyhow, there is one thing getting under my skin. And it gets in even deeper if I switch on my TV and find some Sedqa/Appogg/Richmond Foundation someone telling me that they are there to help. Try the 179, nobody ever picks up. Try the 151, it's much of the same. And try Richmond whose number I don't have because it's useless anyway, I didn't get anywhere. And so it's at times like the times when they come with a sleek bob (so kitsch and so 80's) waving their hands, and trying to look very professional by touching their eyeglasses in an obsessive mode. I wear glasses too, I just wear them, not touch them 60 times in 60 seconds. There's a hint of OCD in there but anyway. And it's at times when I just want to do the Bush thing and throw my shoes at them, the problem is that it'll be my nice TV getting the blows, and my TV is way too nice and innocent to have earned that. And I love my Gucci shoes way too much. So I just sit there seething, until the seething gives way to hopelessness. It's useless, people representing agencies will always be a staple on these midday programmes. Not all are bad. Some have the best intentions. But sometimes, when you've done everything in the book, then sometimes I'm human too, and I get tired and the glass starts getting half empty.

Rich-mond?

As I surf on this nice and informative thing called the Internet, and seeing I woke up too late to buy the Sunday Times, my very well rested eyes inevitably look at the list of beneficiaries which will be benefiting out of the money collected from l-Istrina. And among the list which isn't small. my again very well rested eyes pause on a word beginning with a capital R. No this is not an I spy with my little eye something beginning with R. It is the Richmond Foundation whose people like to go and have a chat with people who host afternoon magazine TV programmes. They always have a lot to say. And one day, while I was dealing with baggage of my own, they seemed to be the answer to my prayers. So I emailed, called, emailed again and called again... for help of course. Yeah right, I could have been just trying to email the Phantom of the Opera and probably I would have been better off emailing him because perhaps he would have answered me in a scribed letter on wax parchment, sealed with the inevitable black rose. This was four years ago, and no I am not trying to square things. I had to forget about Richmond and do it my way, which was tough, but which at least got me through some very sad moments.

Four years down the line, for reasons which I cannot type here since Richmond cares a great deal about its people, or perhaps because the Private Data Protection Act is a very good excuse, I was directed towards this Richmond Foundation. And since it was four years later, I thought that perhaps they were finally available. They were, when it suited them. Calling the Richmond Foundation and getting trough is as possible as my chance of going to the moon and putting my very own flag. And it's not 1969, but 2009, that's not four, but forty years down the line. And it has amazed me to see how things are conducted, while always having the oh so blessed Private Data Protection Act to blame things on. And so I now learn that money donated from the nation is going to this organization which goes easy on the eye and which hides behind the PDPA curtain. And while one of its staff says one thing, another one of its staff writes down another. And I should let things lie because, poor things, they are doing their best, and you see it's all about integrating people with mental illness and psychological traumas back to society. But do they? In my case last time, they never bothered. In my case this time, they don't seem to be bothered much. But I could take the not bothering if at the very least they could be men or women enough to say the truth. And I also could take the not bothering if it was at least accompanied by corroborative words. Oh and look at Villa Chelsea, you see they're trying to integrate this one and that. Could be. But what do I do when one of their staff says someone is happy with one idea, when another of their staff says I instill fear? Fear? Where did that come from? I would be ready to bet on a million Euro although I do not have that much money and no I am no gambler that fear is the one thing which is not present. And what and whom do I believe when one of the people in their care says they are being locked up in a room with just food and water? And at the end of the day, should I too hide behind their PDPA policy, which perhaps wouldn't be a very good idea for Richmond seeing I would probably take up all the space and leave them uncovered, unearthed, with nothing more to hide behind. Just plain naked.

Sleep

It's unbelievable, I am breaking my own record time and time again. I am up from yet another 3 hours of sleep. And I really don't like my bed that much, but perhaps once you've got a clear mind, sleep comes easy. Or I don't know what reason to pull anymore. But with the coming recession, sleeping is going to be a good alternative to lots of other things. Sleeping requires no energy, or lighting however subtle, so that's going to save on my horrible Enemalta bill. It also doesn't require water, so that's another saving from Water Works. Sleeping does not need petrol or diesel, that's yet another saving. It also required no eating, drinking, going out. In other words, sleep is possibly the cheapest way to go. Except for the fact that I wonder if anybody will be paying me for doing just the sleeping. Not that I hate my job, far from that. But sleep would save me quite a few Euro. But then again sleep would deprive me from seeing the little faces, and that's not on. I wonder if sleeping all day could actually contribute to some kind of diet seeing I wouldn't be able to eat if I were asleep. Throw out all the Atkins, Weight Watchers, this is the new revolutionary diet of sleep. The sleep diet. Which reminds me of Sleeping Beauty and her very slim waist. Of course she'd be the proud owner of her slender waist, who wouldn't be after sleeping for a hundred years? Of course she'd be rewarded by some hunk who suddenly kissed her, I would too had I to sleep for a hundred years. Sometimes fairy-tales are quiet twisted where the truth is concerned. A girl pricks her finger and get a hundred years of sleep, no tetanus jab, nothing. And she'll have amazing sleek hair even after a hundred years, not a wisp out of place. And she won't have aged seeing that's she just been sleeping prettily. I think I want to be a Sleeping Beauty, especially if it guarantees that size 6 waist of hers. I would have gone so far as to beat any of Arani Issa's weight loss stories. And then I'd get that handsome, mind-blowing price who would have a lot of kingdoms filled with fairies and elves who would do the housekeeping. Such bliss. And I would inherit the royal jewels.....

When God went to sleep...

I have made the effort to check on my twin regardless of what I'd find, and he seems ok, very perky and elated at having won a fancy dress party. Well... you'd think the Arani Issa man could make the change into something else wouldn't he? But he actually had the most horrible mask ever, not even Quasimodo would have been able to compete. Because as he so arrogantly put it, he can never find a mask better than his natural face, he's just got to go ugly! Geeze what an attitude, so far away from mine. If only I could somehow inherit some 10% of his confidence I would be a changed woman. But I prefer hiding. I do not like parties, it would be a traumatic experience for me. My twin on the other hand seems to have made this Christmas into one long party-after-party. I really see nothing similar, I guess God took a deep siesta when he was moulding us, so then we were stuck with much less expertise, and see what you get, two people who are so different that the chalk and cheese become suddenly similar. I really think God went to sleep. He made Joseph first (that is biologically confirmed) and he started from the bottom part. At the same time God started on me too and began on the top part. So there we were with Joseph's body all ready and my face all done too, when suddenly God felt tired and went for His nap, leaving his less experienced men (or women) to finish the job. That is exactly how we both were conceived and how we both came into the world. And so there lies my twin with the perfect body, and me with the perfect hair and face. Oh well, you cannot have everything in life.

Because they knew better...

I have just broken my own record of the day I woke up the latest out of all the days of my life. It's 12 noon and I've just grumpily got up. I think if I hadn't forced myself I would have got up later but I do not like waking up when half of the day is over. . Although to my credit, I finally got to bed at 4 in the morning, so that sounds that bit less lazier. Well, never mind, it's done now, useless crying over spilt sleep. And today will probably be a hell of a boring day because it's Sunday, and it's not the Sunday before Christmas where the capital was full of exciting things, such as the shops being open. I loved last Sunday, it is probably the only Sunday I like throughout the whole year. And I have to wait for next year for it to come again. This is one day I really miss not being in London's Brent Cross. Well, it can't be helped.

So, the plans for the day. I have no plans. Perhaps I should start clearing out my wardrobe which is still in summer mode. But that's such a big job to do on the day of rest. Perhaps I could start putting my jewellery in its proper place but even that is another hard job seeing that jewellery is running all over the place. And this is going to sound terribly silly, but I miss my twin. My twin who has gone to Gozo for the weekend, whom I saw just yesterday and who will be coming this evening. That means it's not even a 48 hour apart, and yet I miss him. And all through yesterday I had this weird scary feeling that something ugly might happen. I just transformed myself into the mother who worries herself sick because someone might spike her son's drinks. And I am no mother, but a twin sister. And now I understand why my mother was always so worried when I was running all over during my teenage years. Oh God, she must have had it hard, I was not exactly an exemplary teen. I thought I knew it all, and now that I realise which road I could have gone down, well I'm sorry for putting my mum, and dad through such misery. I did nothing legally wrong, never did, but 16 years later I realise that I was in danger, because I was with the wrong man who did everything wrong, just a girl who hooked up with a very bad boy. And yes I could have gone down the path he went down, but somehow my mum's prayers were listened to just in time. Because little miracles do happen, it's just that this was a big one. There was no way I was leaving this bad boy, and yet one day I did just that, to the relief of my mum, dad, and my twin. I am not very proud of myself when I remember, but I really knew no better. Bad boys have something attractive about them, the problem is that the worry supersedes the attractiveness and tears your guts out. No more bad boys. Mum really knew better. And I wonder how, seeing that she was no expert in the love stakes, her having married her first and only boyfriend, a true gentleman who happens to be my dad. I really wonder how. But she knew it, all along. And I also remember my dad who actually cried tears because somebody else was abusing his baby. Yes I know, I will never fit into any baby stuff, but I will always be my dad's baby. That's how it is. Such a turbulent time. Now I wish I had listened to them, but I console myself that at least I listened just in time. I know mum and dad will probably never read this, seeing they are both computer illiterate. But just in case they do, well, I have to admit, they really knew better, all along.

Trumpet Players...

I am back after having a lovely Saturday night with one of my very bestest friends and his girlfriend. Oh and the Mister of course. It could have cost the earth but it didn't, and even if it did I wouldn't have batted one eyelash. But it reminds me of one very special friend who really has a special place in my heart, and his place is very high up. Because it's when you're on your downside, when life deals you a cruel blow... it's then when you start knowing exactly who your friends really are. It's when the pain comes flooding in and that is also when you see your friends gloriously pushing their way out. And then come the very very few, the ones who actually ring your doorbell to listen to whatever's wrong, fearless of the pain. That is why I will always always remember this friend with special affection because I will never forget the day he knocked on my door when I had become a virtual recluse. And he pushed and pushed his way into my heart which I had declared closed, but he would not take a no, leave me alone answer. And since then we have become an item. I know we raise quite a few eyebrows because not many people can take a totally platonic, man and woman relationship, but I really do not care. Because the ones raising their eyebrows were playing blind when I needed them. And I am so glad for this friend of mine, because it seems he has finally found the one... a brilliant, beautiful woman as a companion. And he deserves all the good things in life.Oh I know just how mischievous he can be. But I will always be so grateful for the time when he knocked on my door and saw me collapse in sheer anguish on my sofa. He wasn't scared. Nothing stopped him. Because sometimes angels are sent to us in the form of trumpet players, and professional ones at that. Just like those cherubs...

Peace, Love and Serenity

Right now I'm not a very nice person to be with. I never am when I am so disgruntled. And I cannot take more of l-Istrina. everybody is so happily giving away their time, their antics, their bluff, all in the good name of charity. Because as they keep saying, one day it could be me who needed help. That's so very true. The fact is I have always donated to the l-Istrina cause and that's not because I'm pious, nor to get a round of applause. Just factual, nothing else. So it could be me needing their services when life throws a ball of concrete right at my head. The thing is life did throw the concrete ball, I did need help, and where were the l-Istrina people? Nowhere in sight. Where were all the associations, groups which benefited from l-Istrina? Nowhere in sight. And I tried so very hard, I went through the phone directory like a maniac, I went to Caritas, I dialled 179, Called all the foundations such as Richmond. Oh God did I try. But apparently my ball of concrete was so unique that there was no help as yet. Trust me for finding a peculiar concrete ball and not a silly normal one. And to this day, there still is no help for those who are hit by the same concrete ball I was hit years ago. So I switch on my TV and see a bunch of clowns promising that if I ever needed help someone would be there, when I know there wouldn't be anybody. Because people are scared of pain, pain is something which doesn't even attract the flies, let alone attract the people. And of course they seem so intent on showing clips of people who once were on the downside of life, people who have been there and came out alive. That's sweet. But that is not the majority. Or it could be the majority, yet I have no place there. Being selfless is always commendable, but what happens when disaster strikes so close to home? Do I call these people? I actually have, but I apparently was so complicated that there was no place for a girl with a dark shadow hanging over her. Am I resentful? A little bit, yes. Because there was nobody around and I had to make it out of that pitch black hole on my own. Thankfully I was half my size back then, so that kind of helped matters. Pain is relative but pain is also just pain whatever kind of. And when you're thrown into that black hole without a warning, the pain is compounded. I could let bygones be bygones. But I know more people will be faced with that concrete ball, no matter how rare it happens. And to them I can only wish peace, love and serenity.

The video clip

So I did survive the chicken salad at McDonald's. I went further than that. Seeing that I have missed out on all the Christmas culinary niceties, I decided I really also deserved a Baci ice-cream as payment for all stress and gut incontinence. And it was fine, is must have been because I have lived to tell the tale to a day which I cannot stand much. It's the Strina day, when everyone huddles themselves opposite their TV plasma screens, or even a humble old TV screen to watch people going nuts. And because people like watching other people sing and act themselves silly, that means they will be donating money. I have no qualms about the donation bit. But really, do we have to watch clips of sick and disabled people at their worst every five minutes? Isn't that stripping them of their dignity? And no, I don't think that the ends justifies the means. People can amuse themselves silly and donate money, that is not a problem because for TV people like my twin, that means exposure and they choose to do it without anybody forcing them to. But for the other people who are less well off physically, mentally and whatever else, then no, reeling video clips of how these people are suffering is not on. If that is what it really takes to appeal to the population to donate for charity, then this is a country I'd rather not be in on days like today. And it's not because these video clips are ugly or anything of the sort. I am not complaining because I'd rather not see these people since they make me sick to my stomach. No, hell no. I am used to it, we had it in our family, we somehow managed, and we know what it's like to have people stop and stare as if we were some green people disembarking off a UFO. It's rude, and unkind to stop and stare at disabled people. And a lot of people will agree with me here. Why then, isn't it rude and unkind to stare at these people just because they are being aired on TV, so that gives us the opportunity to stare at them every five minutes while we're cosily curled on our sofa? It's the same, only worse. And do we Maltese really have to see physically twisted people to do out bit and think of the people who are less lucky? If it is the case, then I guess, it's us being mentally twisted and not the every-5-minute-video-clip. And perhaps they should turn the cameras to us who are comfortable seated, munching some mince pie, and being amused. I can take the TV personalities doing all the silly things in the world, I can take MP's doing all the silly things in the world. They're funny, and we get to see their less pedantic side. And they're funny because they have had their say, they know very well they are being caught on tape, and theirs is a bid to collect money for charity by looking silly. That's ok, quite commendable too. But it's not funny to watch that video clip. And while it perhaps is the only way that can reach some hardened hearts, I am not so sure. Because again, the road to hell is paved with good intentions, and in this case they are heartbreaking, not for us, we can handle it. But what if we were them? Would we think it's a very good intention? And would we walk down that rocky path?

The f-word

Everybody on Facebook is complaining, boasting, scared at the copious amounts of food they have consumed over these last two days. I'm usually one of them, just not this time. I did try. But I failed. And I guess nobody would like to hear the details. Let's just say that by the time I was home after the damn Christmas Eve breakfast, the whole breakfast had been thrown up. Enough said. Not a pretty sight. And it went on from there. I just didn't have the appetite for any of it. Which is extremely rare in my historical biography. Usually I just can't sit down properly anymore because I'm scared the buttons on my pants are about to pop, blind someone, and sent to forensics for proper examination. But not this time. And I am not a girl who pecks at her food. Unfortunately I think food is one of the best inventions ever made by mankind, and it's difficult to resist. But again, not this time. As for why, it seems my stomach too is into some recession. I can only eat some but not a lot or I am risking a repeat performance of early Christmas Day, which wasn't pretty, and which I am in no hurry to repeat. Which in itself is not a bad thing, it's not as if I am going to die from hunger anytime soon. It'll take quite a lot for enzymes to break up the f-word. I probably could go right through the Third World War hungry and still survive, because the f-word will protect me. Seriously. It is quite tragic the way a chocolate bar finds itself immediately on my hips, when the same chocolate bar is flushed out in minutes by my dear old twin. Twin? Yeah right. But then my dear old twin goes to the gym and exercises his abs, biceps and what not. Oh dear, we're quite a screwed up pair of twins.

So in honour of me having eaten as little as a sparrow, I'm off to McDonalds. I know, it's junk, but they make a mean chicken salad. So hoping I'll keep that down. And woe betide anybody who dares so much as think of the f-word. If you're thinking of it, look the other way....

D.I.Y.

Nothing is happening as in physical, butterfly-effect happenings. But a whole lot is happening as in inside me wasp-effect happenings. But I have to make the effort to come here, because as long as I'm here I'll be fine. The temptation to give my blog a break is big, but I know it will not help, because one day away will turn into a week which will turn into a month, just like last time. So I'm here to stay somehow, even if my ramblings do not always make a lot of sense. Even if I get down to my last cigarette in the house, at the very least, I'll put my words on hold and make the drive to MIA which is always so equipped.

I am at crossroads. I've known it for a couple of days, but I've tried to shelve it because Christmas really didn't look like the best time to stay motionless at the crossroads. Henceforth (now that sounds like one hell of a legal word but anyway) I tried to push myself to at least staying awake and talking, an effort both for myself and for the mister who worries so much. I'm sorry I worry him, but sometimes things are what they are. I know I need not use the sorry word because there is an unsigned understanding that one will pick the other up whenever necessary. No fighting, no shouting, no arguing, no disagreements. Just an understanding. And when you've gone through years with me without temperamental me throwing not a single tantrum, well I guess we're not doing bad at all. But that is not what has me sitting silently under the dim light of an old lamppost which could use a lick of governmental paint. It's cold, but I am wrapped up better then any Christmas present.It's also being wrapped up in thick skin which has seen worse. It's just the lies that I cannot take; the key words being soon, in due course, hoping I will understand, neglect, reluctance and the cherry on the icing ... fear. All of which are a heavy cocktail of lies so big that they cannot pass through the cocktail straw because the cocktail itself is like thick sludge. I am not one for the drink, and certainly not one for a disgusting cocktail like that. It's so sad that anybody human person can have a foot in such dung. And then we boast about integrity.

So should I turn to D.I.Y.? Should I turn to D.I.TV? Or D.I.Letters in newspapers? Or D.I. My Way? I haven't a clue. I could keep my chin up and keep up the drama, perhaps fall and brush myself back up. Or I could quite simply put another expenditure on the government. But hold on it's Friday and it's Xarabank. And I know the address, it's just next door to the people who lie. Same on me for not having walked out and in. But I thought it was for the best, and now I'm not so convinced. Perhaps a touch of D.I.Y.......

Do Not Disturb

I am out of my afternoon coma and have shaken myself into reality. I wonder why I sleep so deeply, it must run in the family but there have been times when people where abusing my pretty doorbell, when they were intent on breaking my front door down, when they called both my land line and my mobile phone line, all at the same time. I still kept on sleeping and heard nothing.I have given my twin heart attacks when I do this because he always fears the worst. I have sent shivers right down the spine of my mum and dad because they too fear the worst. And I have given my other half quite some scared moments because he also feared the worst. And all of them thought the same thing; that I must have fallen and hit my cerebellum so hard that I knocked myself unconscious when really it's just my head which hit the feather pillow. And all of them were quite pissed once they managed to get through the door (spare keys), and find out that I was still sleeping like a baby. Which didn't make much sense, since they should have been pleased to find out that I was safely in bed and not sprawled on the floor like some homicide scene out of Murder she Wrote. My relationship with sleep has always been strange. I can only sleep on my own pillow, and yes I've been known to take it on holiday with me. I need my own bed, my own cluttered surroundings. I need the same wall to stare at, the same cats jumping up and down on me, and then sleep is easy. But had I to miss just one of the requisites, then sleep is something way far off. It is probably the reason why I hated sleep-overs even as a child, while my twin was sleeping all over the place (just sleeping at the time). But not I. I envy those who enter the world of sleep exactly when they hit the pillow, those who can sleep a solid eight hours and not wake up some time in the middle. I can't. And perhaps it's also the reason why I should hang a 'Please Do Not Disturb Sign' and carry it around proudly on the left (or right) side of my chest. I would if I could. If i could get away with it, that is.

8 inch heels

And again, now I remember something else. I realise why it felt so bad yesterday on Christmas Day. I inadvertently pulled down the iron shutters on the outside world. Because I couldn't very well take the little people running down my street laden with presents as they made their way to their nanna's. And I couldn't very well let myself see their immaculate, airbrushed mums trying to balance themselves on something like 8 inch heels, with or without their husbands in accompaniment. That is not a problem for me. But there I go, of course seeing a couple together is not a problem, because I have all that. Although on Christmas Day I always say a silent prayer to the one who left so suddenly only to return in my dreams. But I've made my way through that, so now I don't give it much thought. That's the beauty of life and the way it changes us and others. So I can take 8 inch heels, 6 inch heels, knee high leather boots dangerously balanced on mean-looking heels. I can also take the war paint, that's easy, it only takes me a 15 minutes to create that. It should also take me 15 minutes or less to create a something else, but it never happens. And I am resigned to it, I don't spend a 15 minutes crying for what is not to be. It's not to be so it's over and done with. And I am one who will really never cry about shoes, I have so very many, one would think I have a foot fetish (which I don't). But when the 8 inch heels, no matter how dangerously balanced are taking baby steps so as to make sure the owner doesn't fall and so as to make sure that the little person, also dangerously balanced on a hand keeps defying the gravitational pull, well that's another story. And now I realise that I am, not intentionally, being a Silas Marner. But even Silas was sent a little Eppie. It seems that all through European literature, people who have had an unlucky blow in life have closed their hearts to the world. And that is understandable, I would have done the same. But then all through this literature, it's always the little people sent from God knows where who manage to open the hearts of those who have turned against life. And these little people do not walk on 8 inch heels. Somehow I am remembering a lot of things, and actually am surprised that I didn't grow bitter. Perhaps it was through sheer hard work of my own, perhaps because it was destined to be that way. But I do not want to be the girl who looks on wistfully on a scene which includes 8 inch heels and a little person. Or two little persons at that. I have gone through all of my childhood photo albums and yes I've seen how cute I was (who isn't at that age anyway?), but I've also seen the happiness of my mum in dangerous platforms and micro skirts (it was the 70's), and my happy dad with huge sideburns and hippy clothes. I guess I will never understand. But perhaps my profession helps me to function, and very well. Because I don't see many 8 inch heels. Although I see a lot of little people. But they're safely away from the heels and mostly into sensible school shoes.

Happy Birthday Jesus

I'm finally up (and about time too), and it has suddenly dawned on me why I thought Christmas Day is such a boring day. Because I forgot it was Jesus' birthday. Seriously. Sometimes we are so wrapped up in our boredom and in thinking about what we do not have as opposed to what we do have. There is this beautiful song (yes I am quite obsessed with the music), beautiful because of the lack of a better word, it is a magical string of perfect notes which when sung goes straight to the heart of even the best of Scrooges. It makes me stop in my tracks, especially when sung, and especially when listened to. It is one of those which I cannot have in the background while doing something else. Somehow it requires full attention, it is just one magical piece of music where you will stop in awe, at least that is what I do, and I have listened to it a million times, just not yesterday. Now I remember how I have survived all of my Christmas Days in the world. Because this Happy Birthday Jesus was firmly etched into my brain, heart, and soul. One just cannot not be moved with this. And here goes the link, please please please, watch this, it'll be worth your time..... http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=claKP84h9EE&feature=related

Christmas Day

Not much left before Christmas Day is finally over. And I'm trying not to be a spoilsport. I know many people love this day, they get to meet their relatives and friends whom they haven't seen for a long time, possibly since the last Christmas Day. Not me. And no I do not like Scrooge or copying his style for that matter. But my Christmas Day is probably as lifeless as a soft toy lying on a child's bed. Or perhaps that soft toy would have more action than me. I have everybody and nobody. I know what it is to live on your own, and I have survived quite some Christmas Days on my own. It's just another day. And a very boring day for me. It also is a day which makes me sad. Of course I could look and think of others less fortunate than myself, but we almost never do that. We see the grass on the other side, which is always greener. No I am far from being envious, it's just that I wish I could have a happy Christmas Day where I'm so rushed off my feet that I don't have time to think. Because I do enough thinking as it is. And enough of talking to myself too. Well I at least talk to my cats sometimes, but I couldn't describe it as a very intense kind of conversation. It would have been at least happier had Santa come, not through my chimney (I don't have one), but I guess he could make it through my front door. It's big enough for me, so Santa wouldn't have any problem. And I wouldn't ask him for anything. Well, yes, I would. I would ask him for some serenity, the kind where I could stay motionless yet still feel happy. I wouldn't ask for over the moon happiness, I tried that, it didn't work, because it never happened. My mum just called to check on her daughter, who is me, because she thinks I was drunk during lunch, I have told her time and time again, that this daughter of hers does not drink, but she either has a hearing problem, or a screwed up head. Probably both. How could I not appear drunk when I was eating lunch only minutes after I'd just got up? Or perhaps, like all mums, she knows something's not quite good, I suck at hiding things like these. How can I say, yes mum, please lay off, because I hate Christmas Day and Santa forgot to get me the IVF, or the required paperwork for the thing that is called 'love another child'? Or mum please stop the nagging because I'm pissed off seeing that a whole lot of people are twisting the truth? Or else, mum lay off again, because you can never understand me as a woman seeing the stork got you two bundles of joy in one? I try to talk sometimes, but it depends if the person you're talking to wants to listen. So I give up and just not talk. Perhaps I'm missing those little faces terribly. The holidays seem to be stretching like a million miles in front of me, they are getting in the way. It's just one hour of Christmas Day left. I've survived the 35th. Christmas Day of my life.

Graduating to Designer

What do people do on Christmas Day apart from eating a lot? I suppose they go from one relative to another, or perhaps they make an effort to meet all at the same place this once a year. Cool. Except that not all of us have large families, or extended families. I cannot remember what we did as kids, perhaps because it's been so long, and also perhaps I was never alone, since I had this twin tagging along with me. We used to love the presents which looked big, size was an issue. The bigger the present, the more the fun. No cousins, no other kids to play with, it was just me and my boy. But it was ok. Now, everything's changed. I would never find fault with a tiny present; tiny as in size. Nor with a present which comes in the form of a greeting card with cash stuffed inside it. I still prefer the actual presents though. But if someone has been too busy, then I'm ok with that, I'll take presents in the Euro denomination, no problem, and no questions asked. But a lot has changed. I have changed, and my twin has changed. We have graduated from Playmobil to Cavalli, Chanel, Cartier, and Versace. And I also cannot find any fault with Dior. Our presents have shrunk in size, but not in cost. And we have grown in size, and probably not very much in the mental stakes. We love designer, and I'm not very sure that that's a grown-up thing to do, but we all have our weaknesses. My mum, for instance, wouldn't be able to tell the difference between a Rolex and a watch off the Monti. My dad also isn't very finicky on labels. So we cannot have inherited the gene. And I cannot see it anywhere all through the family. It's just us. We do not even live under the same roof anymore, although that in itself is perhaps a blessing. But what I secretly never mention, although I know it's present, is this inherent sibling love which would be very hard to beat. That is why i will forever love my twin and his choices no matter what choice. And I hope he does the same.

Not a single word?

Ok so that's all of yesterday's evening wear rolling around in the washing machine. I just hope they'll come out safe, but there was no drycleaning-only tag, so I'm hoping for the best.

A strange things happened yesterday while we were having the early breakfast at about 25 kilometres away from home sweet home. There was one table housing one couple. Nothing strange about that, so were we, a couple on our own. It's a good thing we never tire of each other because we'd probably have drifted apart a very long time ago now. So, back to the couple, a man, and a woman, presumably husband and wife. They almost ate all the breakfast buffet for one. Secondly they never said a single word to each other. Admittedly, perhaps they didn't have the time for that, seeing they were so intent on scoffing the whole place down. But not a word? And then, the wife gets out a magazine and proceeds to read it on her own? Something's wrong there. Have dined all by myself plenty of times, but being a sole diner makes it forgivable to read while food is getting ready. Being a couple, the only couple seated at their table? And of all days, on Christmas Eve? That's not so nice. And although I kept battling with my stomach to keep its contents down, we were still talking non stop. Not them. And they didn't appear to be at loggerheads with each other either. They weren't that young either, but is it possible to have used up all your words by the time you're 50? That's a scary thought. It was like watching the inevitable husband-and-wife-in-bed joke. You get the husband watching TV, the wife is bored, so the talk turns to, honey do you love me? To which the husband grunts a yes. Next, honey would you find someone else if I died? To which the husband cleverly answers in the negative. And so on and so forth. Everybody's seen that scenario somewhere, and it is accepted, it is also accepted as funny and hilarious. Perhaps they should upgrade that scene to a couple dining on the same table who never say a single word to each other. Then it wouldn't be funny anymore, but downright startling.

The Eve and D-Day

It is finally Christmas Day, and I am not too pleased about it. In a week, the lights will be coming down with the trees, and I never like it. Christmas Day is one day when everything becomes boring. Especially when I haven;t had a good Christmas Eve like last night. I guess I should have stayed in, but decided to make an effort, for my sake, and for the Mister's sake, so we proceeded to cross the island from South to Extreme North just to be able to have an early Christmas breakfast in style. Yeah right. I was sick until we got there, but still decided to brave it out. The I was terribly, horribly, sick on the way back, and I don't think the Mister appreciated it very much. Of course he said all the right words, did all the right things, but I suspect cleaning a car of whatever my guts decided to throw out at 5 in the morning wasn't very nice. And I didn't even drink. Anybody who saw me clearing my gut contents out in the middle of roads must have thought, Ah ok, serves her right for going heavy on the booze. That is how it looked, but that wasn't how it actually happened. I only drank a small glass of orange juice, not really something to call the cops about. What a flipping mess. Well come Christmas Day, I have woken up with all the sickness gone but with the lethargy of someone who has doubled his dose of hypnotics. I also notice that I haven't had any Christmas presents, the wrapped up kind. I got a whole lot of presents in the Euro denomination, so I shouldn't complain. But it is because people think I do not appreciate gifts, is it because they think they don't know my tastes, or is it because they think I am very difficult to please? I just don't know, but I have missed tearing off Christmas wrappers this year. Well I guess I shouldn't grumble, because money talks, although my money never stays with me long enough to learn the alphabet in phonetics, let alone string a sentence. Or perhaps my money has learning difficulties but not expressive difficulties. Whatever it is, I am just thankful that I decided to give my fur coat a miss yesterday night. That would have been impossible to stick in the washing machine.

Santa

I'm set and ready and resigned. It'll be some other day, some other someone. Right now, pushing it is useless, and I don't even feel like pushing it anyway. Because all this time I've put my strength into someone else, and right now on Christmas Eve I'm putting it into my own self, which may be getting older and nuttier. I still think angels are cute when all my boys think they're psychos dressed in white, wings and tinsel for a couple of hours. I know that I provide them with a whole lot of entertainment when they're all waiting for my word 'cute' and for the little silent tear that inevitably will make its way into my very well plastered laughter lines. I still dream of a White Christmas, I still think Santa doesn't forget the important ones, although judging by his age he might very well have dementia now. But who am I to judge Santa. He must have been one hell of a good looking man when he was younger. And I like older men anyway, but perhaps not as old as Santa although Cialis would help him no end. Maybe Santa has been OD-ing on Cialis that's why he's still so perky at such an unearthly hour. And maybe he carries a sackful of our baggage to help us. Santa must be a very good man. Cialis doesn't make a man, it makes us, us girl's lives that much better. Oh and he must have so much experience too. He's also probably been a peeping-tom without wanting to be. Who knows how many chimneys he's gone down, only to find that he'd better tread quietly because some people might find Christmas Eve an exciting time to copulate. So he's probably been there, done that and seen it all. I wonder if Santa has got rid of his eyeglasses yet, I'd put him in immediately for corrective laser eye surgery with compliments if he hasn't. I mean Santa is a good excuse in himself to skip all the queue in Arani Issa. And since Santa is a good man, then he deserves it.

Toothpaste and toothbrush

I feel like getting into bed and taking whatever it is out on my feather duvet. That way I won't get hurt, nor will anybody else. But I won't get into bed, and I won't be pulling my duvet over my face, even thought it's a lovely thing to do at the right time. It's Christmas Eve and I at least have to put right to a wrong. I am so fed up with the lies, excuses, tall stories, short stories, one act plays, 20 minute movie clips. Because that is exactly what I have been told by the oh so royal authorities. Couldn't they at least have come clean and said the truth? Not edge us on, not promised so many things and delivered none. No, worse, they have concocted this really foul minestrone of one lie which is not linked to another, of one lie which is put down by another. The people of the lie are not very easy to detect, especially when they're demurely working in an office. But one lie is all that is needed. Because someone who lies through his/her teeth generally has been using the wrong band of Colgate toothpaste, as well as the wrong brand of Oral B toothbrush, and they haven't been flossing properly either. It's like one small snowball gathering momentum to being one gigantic, dangerous avalanche. Now I understand the power of the Titanic movie which had me sleeping soundly after the first hour. I must have missed plenty of it. And this was supposed to be the sea craft which knew no boundaries. But I was awake when the same sea craft was going under, and I was awake to watch the captain go down with his ship. Because he was not a person of the lie. Some things are not what they were. We are short of real men and women today. Perhaps because we're so busy, perhaps we have such tight schedules. It doesn't matter which brand of toothpaste we use, nor which toothbrush. But perhaps we'd best start flossing immediately so then the lies could completely and easily come out from the start. That would save a lot of work, hope and heartache.

Fear???

Ok so what do I do? I need a lawyer, a notary, a doctor, a shrink. And a TV station with balls. I think that should be enough. The sorry thing is that I have all five. But I still will not take the plunge. It's probably something like being the accused when you're totally innocent. You know you're at peace and you have nothing to hide, but still, you never know where it could go. I feel as if I am playing some people-Scrabble, and I wish it were that simple. Because no matter who my opponent is, I always in at Scrabble. It's a tradition, my tradition, and I cannot even start to think what it would be like had I to lose. Because I am a bad loser, terribly bad. But this is not a game, certainly not a game where I am lost for words. I could talk, talk, talk till New Year's Day and still have yet more words. I also have a fighting spirit in me somewhere, it's still dormant, but one of these days it'll become active with a vengeance. Being big just means you have more space where to hide the fighting spirit. It doesn't mean it's not there, I've just learnt to put it on hold. And it's been on hold for a long long time. But somehow I'm convinced that it still isn't the right way to go. Did I ever have angry parents? No, certainly not. Do I have an angry brother? Not at all. And is my other half an angry beast? Oh hell no. My boys are not angry boys. But what happens to me also happens to them and vice versa. And lawyers and marketeers seem to like driving a point home. I, on the other hand, just take it out on my blog, or on some cigar. But I have had enough of being told about professionals. Professionals this, professionals that. Me too then, I'm also a professional. We still eat through our mouths, and we still do our business in the smallest room in the house. Same as the poor hawker who is selling peanuts at Valletta's City Gate in the cold. But a scientific professional saying that I instill fear??? Pardon? No little person has ever been scared of me, not ever. I may be a tinge too soft, but no I am so sure I do not instill fear, definitely not in any little person. What a flipping lie. And what would science have to do with fear anyhow? Oh this is such one big scam. Because if I had my way, then someone else's job would be lost wouldn't it? So why not just say the truth instead of trying to find diverse untruths. I may be big, but somehow (and I have no idea how), it doesn't scare little people away. I am not threat to them. I may be though, for someone else who is so not little either.

Two + One

It is finally Christmas Eve and I think I have a cold! But the cold has got to wait, I'm not missing out because of a cold. I've just managed to get up from my afternoon deep sleep/coma, and I'm ready to go. I actually wasn't sure whether this was the eve or the actual day; such was the coma I was in. I've also woken up to a beauty of a Christmas card, which is nice, except that that is the only thing I've forgotten to get for the Mister. He'll survive, and presents are due later on, so hopefully it'll make up for it. And now that it is finally Christmas Eve, I'm not so sure I want it to be. Because Christmas Eve is the time when angels descend from the heavens above, and I know it won't happen. Firstly because all the angels in the heavens are already booked, secondly because after all my imagination is said and done, I know that in reality there will be no angel. Not now, and if my guess is correct, not ever. Perhaps I have to try harder in this barren state of mine. And perhaps that Maltese angels are placed into care, all of them. Now I understand, not the "Thank you for your understanding". That I will never understand. But I understand why my peers have resorted to Cambodia, Romania, and Russia. I never really gave it serious thought, I always thought it might be due to the fact that they wanted an angel with a new slate as a baby. A new or an old slate never bothered me, it seems that the bureaucratic, royal, knowing-it-all, never-giving-anybody-else-a-chance authorities know a hell of a lot. What would otherwise be amusing is the fact that what one authority says, another authority doesn't say. Better still, the authorities concerned could actually master-class Parliament. It's exactly like dealing with the government and its shadow ministers. One authority is in direct opposition to another, yet they proclaim to be working together. And I am tempted to just look the other way and say... whatever. I have done enough, bf has done much more. There is one way I could get everybody to start pulling their socks, one way which will guarantee me success. If I were playing a board game, then I'd win hands down. But it is not a silly laminated board in question, but a human boy. And it would be nice to throw all evidence in some snooty face, but where would that get me. Sure, it would make me so smug and satisfied, but there still is another human being in question. So I guess I'll have to go solo. Well solo isn't really the way to go where the increase-and-multiply is concerned. But there's two of us already... and three won't be a crowd.

Polar Express

For those of you out there who have never heard of this movie title..... I'd better keep what I think to myself. For those of you who have heard but never watched... I'd better keep what I think to myself even more. And for those of you who have heard, watched, listened and walked out of the cinema unchanged, then really, stop reading here because nothing I say will ever change your heart. And for the very few, perhaps just one too, who have heard, watched, seen, listened, come out a changed man, and even perhaps given their two Euro cents' worth of their opinion to the nation, well I hope what I say holds water if nothing else. I'd like my opinion to hold a Christmas pudding instead of water, but water is so calorie-free, you've just got to love it. Because yes, I've been there, for a good five years which I call my five years of being a hermit, I coveted movies as if they were all I had. And perhaps they were all I had as company. I've gone through some really handicapped movies. But one movie which changed me faster then any of the protagonists on Arani Issa (trid tara biex temmen SIC!) was in fact, Polar Express. In my humble, very own words, because I am no movie critic, this animated movie is as good for adults as it is for children. If you enjoy this one, then you will live forever young, if you don't, then please book yourself a one way ticket to Tagikistan. Polar Express is what appeals to the young in any adult. And the little boy who gets to go on a fantastic train ride to meet Father Christmas remains etched in my brain, ever since 2004. I would have watched this movie anyway, because I was on a five-year movie-watching spree at the time, but what drew me more curiously to it was its director Robert Zemeckis who had already directed movies which had stuck to me like a clam; Back to the Future, Forrest Gump, and What Lies beneath, three movies as diverse as anything can get. And while Forrest will somehow always have all my admiration, Polar Express comes in as a very close second. Even more moving are the soundtracks of all four movies, with Polar Express' "When Christmas Comes To Town" summing it all in a nutshell. Because if you can still see with the same magical innocence known to children, then the magic is all yours, at your feet. Only then can anybody start to understand the magic that lies behind all the hope which little people hang on. And if anybody understands that, then suddenly life becomes a magical train ride, not without hiccups, train tickets are sometimes lost, but replaced through the magic of faith.

The Blank Wall

I'm here again, after doing the very last and final errands for Christmas. I'm still on a Christmas high, and I don't have much time. It will be up by tomorrow, what a pity, we should have a whole Christmas week were nobody is on holiday except for me, so that I can avail myself of each and every opportune shopping type of activity. This Christmas makes me do strange things. Otherwise how on earth would I have been at my nail technician at half seven in the morning? I cannot even open my eyes at that time of the day on a usual day. The things we do for beauty. Hair is of course done, because Nigel is always at hand, bless bless bless that brother in law of mine. I just love being around when people call him incessantly pleading for a blow dry and he says he's not working, when he's actually just let his good old hairdryer down two seconds before. That is when being the only girl around my boys is very healthy. Because they think I'm some dolly they want to dress up. Nigel takes care of the hair, twin takes care of the jewellery, bf takes care of everything else, making appointments with my beautician, my nail technician and such as not putting the wrong gift tag with the wrong present. Oh I so like those boys. Everything's ready, I've wrapped everything up, and probably gone through two kilometres of Christmassy wrapping paper. Perhaps more, I didn't count. Now all I have to do is sleep right through the afternoon and wake up by six so it will be already dark. I don't think I'll be getting much sleep on Christmas Eve anyway, and I really would hate to sleep right through it. But there are people who will possibly sleep right through it because they just have their normal blank wall to stare at. And that makes me sad because I don't know where they are. If I did, well at least they would have me to stare at, and I'm sure my boys would join in. You do not realise how good Christmas is, even with an unbooked breakfast somewhere, until you put yourself into other people's shoes, that is, and this is going to sound morbid especially on Christmas Eve, if they have any feet left to put shoes into. I know this is terrible, but it's the truth. And as much as I have my little people very close to heart, well the older people get their fair share of sadness. And perhaps in twenty years' time it will be me staring at the blank old wall, me owning 500+ pairs of shoes and me with no feet to put them in. And it's not just the feet. It's also everything else. One-act plays acted out during school Christmas concerts sometimes have a poor woman with kids who are suddenly helped out by some rich man with a golden heart. And the audience applauds. But what is drama on stage could very well be the real thing happening next door. If only we could all take a paintbrush, some watercolours, and paint the blank old wall. Then it'd suddenly come to life, especially for those who have stared at it blankly for the whole year. We could very well be looking at ourselves in the future....

Thank you for your understanding...

There is a certain something which is interfering from my being completely at peace. It's like the kind of interference you get on your mobile phone when driving right through the Santa Venera Tunnels, only this is worse. The legend of I don't know what says that when this happens it means you're in the wrong. But I have tried and tried and tried and tried again to think if I have done something wrong, and I'm not getting any closer to finding why. I haven't done anything wrong, except for the smoking and caffeine habit which happens everyday and which I don't really think about. But there's a hell of a lot of unfinished business. And it's making me uneasy. And helpless. I have told my twin that I love him countless of times, perhaps I should also tell my parents that although their reaction will be one which makes my blood boil. Apparently, 'children' who are 35 and have flown the nest are committing one big sin. Go figure, nothing will convince them otherwise. But I know I have failed to tell one little person about my feelings because I was scared shit of the consequences; not of my consequences, but of his. I just wished I could scoop him up and away and tell him. But I get the feeling that I am not allowed to do that, so, cowardly me, didn't say Carpe Diem, didn't face the music, and just played safe and kept her distance. Now I wish I hadn't. I'm not too sure it would have been so detrimental. But I still kept my distance, and now, if I could, I'd kick my own ass for it. I could care less about what would have happened to me, we're in Malta and there is no death penalty. And really, I would love to see the day I was handed a criminal sentence for hugging a little person. But I was too scared of how it would have affected the little one in question, too scared of the possibility of never being able to see him again. So, like the good girl I am not, I obeyed. And obedience is not really one of my virtues, yet that is what I did. And now obedience doesn't sound like a very good thing. I have seen hundreds of little people, I have liked all of them and I have struck up a close relationship with dozens of them. But I have fallen deeply in love with just the one. I somehow had a clue that it might not be very easy. I have had enough of emails signed off with a "Thank you for your understanding". No I do not understand, shit is shit regardless who it's coming from. I do not understand because someone just said so. And thinking that I will be in awe and immediately understand is the most presumptuous thing one can do. And no, I do not exactly have learning difficulties, nor do I have a low IQ. I am no yes-girl, on the contrary, I will stand up to be spoken. And although I have been brought up to respect authority because the ones with the authority usually know what's best, well I also think respect is a two-way thing which sometimes requires clarification and explanation as opposed to the " Because I said so". The trouble is I forgot to ask Santa for a manual, a shit-interpreter, and a couple of very understanding Spanish Flies. Because that's just about my level of understanding. I have never understood the flies, which are not really my style anyhow, but I have a perhaps mistaken idea that they propel things into action, and that might mean my starting to understand what's happening. Because thanking me for my understanding is the biggest lie ever told. Oh... and thank you for your understanding.