This is probably the very first example of my wit and wicked repartee, that I can remember.

My father was somewhat of an authoritarian, being a headmaster. However from a very early age, my head was moulded out of reinforced steel. I really cannot say why, but if I want something, I want it, and no amount of bullying or bashing will ever change that, on the contrary it just increases my resolve. End of story!

So my poor dad tried everything. If he locked me in my room, I always found a way out. If he locked me out of the house when I was out very late, I always found a way in. Then he figured that he could control me by stopping what little pocket money he gave me. So this lead me, at the age of 13, to start doing newspaper rounds with my bicycle at five in the morning before school, to earn my own money and no longer remain dependent on him. And as incredulous as this might sound, from that very early age, until my beloved parents took their very last breath, I never ever asked them for one single cent, as I always ensured that I was financially independent from them.

So very soon I was happily settled in delivering the Times of Malta around Balzan, Attard and Lija, very early every morning, before I rushed to school. And along with my cousin Peter Bonello, who also did the rounds in a similar fashion, we used to go to collect our meagre wage every two weeks, from the Times offices in St Pauls Street, Valletta. Our manager in charge was a certain Mr Farrugia, who was a reserved and morose individual by nature, always seemingly miserable. At least that was the impression he gave us young kids at the time.

On one of these occasions Mr Farrugia seemed rather perplexed. He informed me that there was an important client on my round who was complaining. He didn’t want his paper left in his front gate, as it became soaking wet when it was raining. He wanted me to go inside his long drive-in and deposit the paper within his letterbox which was right next to the front door of his villa.

That was fine with me. Very much standard practice, so I started cycling in to the end of his drive and leaving the paper exactly where he wanted it. However on the way out, the way his gate was positioned, it was virtually impossible to lock it closed again without descending from my bicycle. Now this is something you never ever do. It wastes time, it’s messy, you risk falling over and above all it ain’t cool!

So during our next visit to Valletta Mt Farrugia aired the client’s irritation and insisted that I properly fastened the gate closed on my way out.

Hmmm! I thought. What an ungrateful person this idiot must be, interfering in the natural laws of paperboy rounds! And by some incredible urge which simply came out of nowhere, as soon as I got home I ran to my dad’s typewriter and this is roughly what I wrote, using words and style I would probably have used then, at the age of 13.

I left this letter in his letterbox along with the newspaper the next morning.

“To the Owner of Villa xyz.

I am your paperboy who delivers your Times every morning. The Times told me that you do not want your paper left in the gate because of the rain. As we are in Malta where it rains very little, this should not really be a problem, but I still agreed to bring it in to your letterbox, even on days when there isn’t even one cloud in the sky.

But then I was told that you were still not happy, simply because I do not close your gate on the way out. You have to understand that I cannot close your gate from on my bicycle and that I would have to get off it to do so. This would take much more time and if all of my 60 houses ask me the same thing as you, I would have to start my round at least one hour early, or be late for school. In the end your gate still isn’t locked so if someone wants to come in to steal a flower pot or something, they could still do it.

I think that in these circumstances you really have to choose. Either I leave it in the gate or I leave your gate ajar.

You see in life sometimes you have to choose – you cannot always have your cake and eat it!”

The very last sentence I am definitely quoting word for word!

The next time we went to see Mr. Farrugia his face was a distinct shade of green. He just shook his head from side to side, constantly repeating in total disbelief “you cannot have your cake and eat it”, “you cannot have your cake and eat it”, not knowing what else to say to the wide eyed, grinning 13 year old boy in front of him. He only eventually pointed out that the fellow’s name was Strickland… which in hindsight very much explains his consternation.

Yes, this is the first such snide writeup I can remember. It’s all been downhill from there…