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...