He

Where am I headed for in life? I have no clue. I cannot plan today yet alone tomorrow and the day after that. And yet some people have it all mapped out. They hit 30, then realise it's about time they got serious, find the next girl on the menu and decide it's the right one. Then, they marry her, have kids. And I have to talk about a he because I'm thinking about a he. And after he has kids, then he decides it's time for some part-time nooky, which turns into full time. And of course as luck would have it, the next girl on the next menu is also the right one. And he juggles everything so effortlessly without a care in the world. Usually, married men who have girl-friends do it on a part-time basis. And yet he does it full-time. Unashamedly. I, of course, am not here to condemn him. But he's a piece of work this he. And a lesson in life. No inhibitions, no trying to hide this and that. He stands on his own. Or perhaps not on his own. Perhaps he needs to feed off power so much that he goes along and creates it. And yet, every tyrant is slave to someone, mostly himself. History is a good way of fathoming out what happens today. And every tyrant was putty in some girl's hands. And I try to get a good look and think about what such a man's childhood would have been like. Because a child grows up mimicking what he's seen. Most of the time. Mimicking and monkeys. And he says it's because he says so. But if he had nobody to say because I say so to, then he would be a very lost little boy all alone in the big blue marble. The power is hers.

Interview stuff

Yesterday has come and gone. Finally. I wasn't too keen on the day because an interview was looming ahead. And I'm not very good at being interviewed. At least that's what I thought. But one good friend whom I never knew I had took the time out to sent me a few words of encouragement as well as what to expect. Life savers like her are very few. It made me feel nice inside, but I still braced myself for the worst. Unfortunately I am not the outgoing twin. I'm the one who says nothing and observes. Which I know makes people uncomfortable. The fact that my Mister here is an interviewee pro didn't help either. He kept smiling while I kept complaining. He likes, no, loves, no, adores interviews. Because he will conduct the interview and not the other way round. But then he's far more outgoing than me. And although I know exactly what he'll be thinking, we really don't think the same at all. His thinking would be, oh yeah great, interview here I come. My thinking was, well in an hour's time this will be over and I cannot wait for it to be over. He doesn't even think that his being big could interfere with things, and since he does not give that scared vibe, it never does. Me.. I dressed in black (more flattering), still kept my trademark gypsy earrings (I don't care if subtle earrings are more suitable for an interview because that's not me), and the rest of my other 5 earrings. And me... scared the big issue would come up. And quite pleasantly there wasn't a millimetre of the big issue vibe in the room. So instantly made me comfortable. And I talked, and talked and talked. I couldn't stop. Suddenly I was loving the attention. Because it was all to do about my world, the world of music and little people, and that is a subject which is very close to heart. I must have written a hundred entries about that subject alone here on my blog. Plenty of practise. The words couldn't stop. The supposedly 20 minutes turned into 60. I never faltered, or felt like a mouse. No I was there in all my grandeur and I knew exactly what I was saying. Experience... sigh. Experience is probably a very good teacher. And being a teacher probably makes you good at public speaking. Four years ago, I wouldn't have been able to hold a conversation with a stranger to save my life. It seems things have changed. I am calmer, but I talk more. I can finally talk because in these four years I have been a teacher, mum, nurse all in one. The world of little people is a grand one. The world of music combined with little people is an even grander one. Hence the interview was a breeze, thanks to the little people, and my new friend. I owe you one Rose!

25 hens

A dear old friend (old as in many years of friendship) has brought to my attention something so funny that has turned me into looking like an idiot, going about life with this big smile. I have also started laughing to myself too. Now I know that some people talk to themselves and that isn't exactly healthy, so I wonder where the laughing-to-yourself fits into the healthy/unhealthy scale. My best guess is that it's extremely happy. It has had me laughing for three days now, and no I'm not tired. And I so want to share this with everybody on the street, but I have to be selective because it sounds thoroughly mad. And sad. When you decide you want to buy a house, you usually go to an estate agent. At least that's what I did when I wanted to sell and buy. Of course estate agents aren't stupid in the least. It's their job, and nobody seems to do anything for nothing. Plenty of foreigners are buying property in what is called the South and that's fine, because the South is also mine and I don't mind them one bit. So the usual thing happens; estate agent calls upon the potential buyer and takes them to show them the house, or whatever type of property it is. Seems we are having inflated prices, but let's skip that. Potential buyer gets to see the house, then asks if the price is negotiable. Perfectly normal. Imagine if the estate agent came out with an,' you have got to add 25 hens to the price'. You'd think he was pulling a fast one. But no, it's a dead serious statement, it goes with the price, 25 hens, actual clucking real hens. Because it's a traditional thing in the contract, estate agent explains. How sad it did not happen to me, I would have died laughing. But if it had happened to me I'd have laughed and said, oh well what can you do. It's not so when it happens to foreigners. I am trying to see it happening to people who do not speak the mother tongue. With disastrous consequences. They must think that for a moment we're back in medieval times, or quite simply, that we're hopping mad. It would be enough to put them off Malta for life. It's outrageous fun for me. But sad for the country. And if I didn't know my friend well, I would have thought she was taking the piss. But no, it's dead serious. And so I've kept thinking about it for three days, smiling like a lunatic, wanting to share it with the world but apprehensive that the world might think I'd gone mad. I haven't gone mad yet, it's all true. And if you've seen this girl out on the streets walking in a zig-zag manner, smiling so hard at nothing, well now you know why. It's all about the hens. Pity not about cocks. That would have been an even better smiling situation. One thing though, I haven't been able to touch chicken for three days, lest the chicken I eat is one of those hens which are drawn up in the contract. Yes, hamsa u ghoxrin tigiega. That's exactly it.