You’ve got to be rather brash to chat somebody up at the airport while standing at Arrivals waiting for someone to arrive. But at least I admit it and I also like to believe that I wear it well.

Having regained my long lost freedom, so to speak, and after many years of my first marriage which had just come to an end, I did tend to try and catch up on lost time.

She was pretty, had big bedroom eyes and seemed to have that ‘yes I’m available’ look all about her. So I dived in headfirst without as much as a moment’s hesitation. And before you could say ‘just landed’ I myself also landed a date. Well to be totally honest it was more of an interview than a date. She was Russian and looking for a job and I too was in a hurry to occupy her and give her plenty to do…

Her only drawback was her English, which was as poor as my notion of embarrassment and shame. That most fateful of days soon arrived, when she was due to come to my office for the supposed interview, which I was deviously planning to divert into more of a romantic encounter than a professional one, to be exact. But before you hastily and shallowly judge my intentions, I was later told that she too would have gladly settled for either, or ideally for both. Life is always a barter of sorts and as the saying goes, it takes two to tango.

She was more than aware of her linguistic limitations, purely from an English language point of view, I strongly assumed… So she brought along assistance in the form of her friend and improvised interpreter.

This was still in the days of secretaries. So my personal one, as secretaries were something you literally owned at the time, popped her head into my office and informed discreetly “She’s here. But there’s two of them”. “Hmm ok, let them in”.

“Hello Olga come in how are you?”. “Aloa Alex. This is friend Masha to help speayk English”.

My heart stopped.

Yes Alex Bonello was finally lost for words.

It doesn’t happen often. In fact it never usually happens. But accompanying her was the most beautiful, elegant, gorgeous and sensual creature I had, and still have, ever laid my eyes on.

She was rather distant and aloof. I tried catching her eyes on several occasions and to search deep within her soul. But she never allowed it. She was there for a purpose and refused to deviate from it.

Olga? Who’s Olga? There was only Masha there, who later informed me that she preferred to be called Maria. I was on automatic pilot. I wasn’t thinking. Everything seemed to be in tunnel vision. How often after all do you get to be blessed by the presence of a real goddess, right in your own office.

I offered her coffee or water but she refused. I offered her a more comfortable seat but she declined. I offered her a smile but she passed on that too.

Her tall and slender body adorned my office. Her delicate skin lit up gracefully in contrast to her golden hair. Her stunning facial features mesmerized me and her large almond oriental eyes held my heart in a tight grip.

But how could I ever penetrate even her attention for starters. She was detached and visibly not at all receptive to any of my advances.

What certainly did not help, as Maria later claimed, were the various phone calls which rudely interrupted our meeting, all of which were of a very personal nature and again related to my regained freedom. So as my posture changed and my voice became somewhat seductive and I slightly slid down into my chair during these telephone conversations, what very little esteem she might have had for me quickly flew out of the window.

This is an angel of unparalleled beauty and yes of Russian origin. So you can all image what even walking down the street was like for her with Maltese men every few centimetres drooling all over her. She had already been in Malta for over a year and had already learned to grow a very thick skin. And for her I was yet another clown trying to impress her with my telephone antics.

This was a desperate single mother with two very young children who escaped from Russia on her own to seek a better life for her family. She was alone and vulnerable, yet clever enough not to fall prey to users and abusers, or ever to deviate from her honest ways. She was fighting against cruel stereotypes and against terrible odds of truly succeeding and as may be expected in such circumstances she proceeded very carefully.

So needless to say, less than nothing happened. We followed up the meeting with a couple of phone calls, but the message was a loud and clear NO. Even Olga understandably disappeared, as nobody likes to be second in line.

I simply had to settle for a ‘you can’t win them all attitude’ and meanwhile had more than enough to keep me occupied. Until many months later as a work reception at the now non-existent Fekruna Restaurant, I glimpse this marvelous creature in the distance.

There she was standing proud and tall. Her enchanting figure obscuring everyone else. Her bewitching face extinguishing all the others. For me only she was there. Everyone else just vanished out of sight.

I bravely walked towards her. Her eyes caught mine and I saw a glimpse of acknowledgement. I brought out my deepest and suavest humour. I took it nice and easy and tried everything from all possible angles. I made her smile and focused my entire attention on her and nobody else. Until finally with alcohol on both of our sides, I started to open her up. So we laughed and we joked and things also became rather gregarious and finally even daring. I asked her if she had a boyfriend and upon her negative reply I asked her what she did for sex!

This was the acid test of sorts and to my great relief it made her really laugh.

So YES my extreme audacity finally got me that first date!

I took her to Savini Restaurant in Qawra, which like Fekruna Restaurant no longer exists. This was then one of my locals where I had a standing order of sorts and the staff were kept constantly amazed at my many conquests. I naturally went through all the motions. Charm and poised refinement and gentlemanly gallantry just oozed out of my ever pore. But more importantly than that I made her feel at ease and I also started opening up to her and showed her that there was a real person behind the facade.

Her sharp intuition told her that I was more than a macho creep. That I too had feelings and compassion. That she had to give people a chance if she was ever going to succeed in her quest for happiness.

We parted that night with a simple awkward kiss. It made no sense for me to put any pressure. I was traveling to France the day after to see my sons and she had told me that during my absence she would be celebrating her birthday. So I secretly managed to obtain her exact address and on the day of her birthday she received from me an enormous bouquet of red roses.

When I called her upon my return she was a different person. Warm and open and affectionate. We instantly decided to meet the day after and went for dinner to Le Chateau Restaurant at the Selmun Palace, which like the Fekruna and Savini Restaurants no longer exists.

There was a different spark to this encounter. She was bubbly, close and intimate. There was excitement and anticipation in the air. Those roses were an excellent investment, as amply demonstrated when we returned to her place on the Strand, in a block of apartments that no longer exists.

But what are buildings and concrete structures when you share endless love with someone. Nearly twenty years have passed since then and we can both undeniably say that we love each other ever more.

Maria my wife has been blessed not only with astounding physical beauty, but with the kindest and most generous of hearts. There is absolutely no improvement I could even imagine wishing upon her. For she is as perfect as any human could ever be.

She loves me with so much devotion. She loves my own children like her own. She looked after and cared for my parents in their final years like nobody else. She has an inside beauty which I have never encountered.

This is my wife whom I am besotted by, whom I am proud of and who deserves only the best.

I love you Maria.

Just a few months ago we were in the far east of Russia, where we celebrated my wife’s birthday. We threw a party for the occasion. Nothing hugely grandiose, just a nice meal in a very decent restaurant.

For this occasion friends and relatives came from far afield. I was astounded that certain came from the next main town which is 200 kilometers away and three hours driving time on a pretty bad road. Just for comparison’s sake, this is roughly the distance between Taormina and Malta! They ate and they had fun, then immediately after, they happily hopped back into their cars and travelled back to get home around breakfast time.

An invitation is an invitation and a get together is something you just do not miss.

But without going to these extremes, in most countries when you organize something, you start off by deciding on how many guests you would like to have. If you want 30 – then you invite 30 and the minute you invite people, you get an instant reply. So by the day after 28 confirm and they write it down in red ink in their diaries, red representing blood and being as strong and binding as a death wish. Two immediately inform you that they will be abroad and therefore unfortunately cannot attend.

And there you go, it’s all sorted. So you are happy with 28, you cater for 28 and believe it or not, what a coincidence, you actually end up with exactly 28 on the day. No deaths, no diarrheas, no punctures, no strange illnesses coming from nowhere, no nothing – just 28!

Then there is Malta.

You decide you want to have 30, so first and foremost you invite 60. If you send out the invite well in advance, for an entire ten days you hear absolutely nothing from no one at all, by which time you really start to wonder if anyone even received it.

Then when you’re just about going to ask them all, you receive your very first reply and only because you’re chatting with one of them by chance. “Yes I’ll let you know if I need that favour from you and I probably will and oh btw regarding that invite you sent us, we will let you know later, cause we’re still not sure what we’re doing. It is next week anyway so there’s still plenty of time to let you know what we might or might not feel like”.

Over the next few days, as your party draws closer, out of 60 you receive just a few similar non-replies. Yes, perhaps, maybe, we’ll see what we feel like on the day. It might be sunny, it might be raining, and what’s on TV on that day?

But naturally you need to make preparations and to purchase the necessary food and drinks. So you yourself chase them all, desperately hounding them down to see if they are interested in coming to your party.

By three days before you only obtain 15 firm confirmations, 15 definite no’s and 30 who blatantly tell you, right in your face and in so many words, that they are keeping their options open. Maybe, we’ll see, it depends, and no matter how much you push they simply won’t budge.

These are the pros, the slick party goers who rake in their many invitations. They never accept or turn down anything, and just leave it as a maybe until the very end. Then they jump into their car and simply flit from event to event at leisure, doing exactly as they please at the time.

They proudly ponce in and out of people’s homes and leave after a few minutes if deemed boring, or remain there and forget all the others, if they are having a great time. For the world is theirs and their crass behaviour is fuelled by more and more invitations rolling in.

So as long as they remain in high demand, they will continue their charade and will never commit to anything in advance. Then the next time they see you, it will either be a matter of – Oh what a great time we had and you know what, we’ll let you in on a little secret. We had twelve other parties on the night but preferred yours. Or it will be – Oh so sorry we didn’t make it, but we were really unwell and stayed in bed on the day.

So where does this leave you only three days before your party, with only 15 definite yes’s? Well you rightly start to panic, so you invite another 20 at the last minute. Now it is you who is forced to lie, as to why you are inviting them so late in the day, desperately trying not to make them feel anything more than an afterthought.

But nobody minds and nobody cares, you could call someone and say – Listen, we’re organizing a party in exactly half an hour, would you like to come along? And many would say – Well we don’t normally plan things so much in advance, but as it seems that we have nothing better to do, why not.

So by the day of your party you had the original 15 who confirmed, plus another ten from your late invites, making it 25 in all. However, eight of the original 15 had later canceled and were replaced by a different eight, four of whom were previously define no’s and the other four were maybe’s.

So it just goes on and on, every hour people cancelling and others confirming. Two are suddenly sick and three have been miraculously cured. Two know that they will be unwell a week in advance, another just remembered of a more important engagement. One neighbour’s cat just died and will have to stay with her mourning. Three have had other engagements canceled and can now come along and two are bringing friends, family and house guests with them, jst for good measure.

So you follow the hourly fluctuation like some mad stock exchange index gone wild. You were down to ten at one moment, then up to 45 only hours later. By this time you have long given up and just sit back and watch in total amusement, at which new lie and excuse you will next encounter. Two people have confirmed and canceled and reconfirmed four times in a row.

You just take a wild guess and cater for 30 as was your original plan. You have no idea of who is even meant to come in the end, and simply don’t care any more.

Then come those crucial last few hours when your numbers just plummet once more. Sudden diarrheas, unexpected hospital visits, car breakdowns, kids with fevers, sudden rashes, anything and everything, all the world’s grief pains and sorrows suddenly collectively afflicting so many of your guests. People cancel who you never even thought were coming, as do the only ones who confirmed from day one.

Then in the last strike of incredulous fate, when it all happens, many of those who never canceled don’t even turn up, while so many others who never even bothered answering you arrive. All the ones who were meant to be trekking in the Himalayas and boarding on round the world cruise ships are suddenly there, while your self-proclaimed closest friends who insisted they would’t miss it in the world, disappear from the face of the earth, leaving not even a ring tone on their phones…

People you don’t even know are there. Brothers, sisters, girlfriends and friends of friends. In the end you somehow made 25, which is more than fine with you.

Even the day after while you’re there hungover and painfully clearing the mess, you still have no idea who turned up. But who cares anyway, it’s not like in civilized countries where people thank each other after attending a party, or thank you back for bringing a gift. So you really don’t even have to know these things, and who those people were inside your home.

I love Malta and the Maltese people especially for their strong principles of valour and loyalty and honesty, always letting you know exactly where you stand. You are clearly always in no-man’s-land, that’s where you stand, now get used to it, because it’s not going to get any better, that’s for sure.

We were expected to divide something like 85,365 by 35, without the use of a calculator and only with a pencil and a piece of paper. Now go image that! Yes I just about missed the dinosaurs by a couple of years, but I can distinctly remember the gradual introduction of the humble calculator.

But the funniest thing of all is that this perfectly harmless and now indispensable and ubiquitous gadget, was then actually considered evil! Can you believe that too? In many people’s minds it would cause the destruction of the human mind, by ridding it of the vital function and ability of counting and making arithmetical calculations mentally. So we wasted years of lessons and homework reciting extremely strange and equally tedious lists of numbers we then called times tables, totally in uninterestingly flightless and monotone parrot like fashion.

Yes, this was somehow considered far more desirable than using time, effort and brain storage space for more useful and productive matters.

Somehow my instinctive response to change, progression and advancement in everything in life, has always been viciously positive and in favour, and I have always told the conservatives and the stick-in-the-muds to get a life or to get lost, and calculators were definitely no exception.

Then of course came the computer, that most evil of machines, which would bring the world to an end, as it was destined to replace all human employees and simply take over from them, dealing humanity that final and cruel blow. I distinctly remember telling people not to panic and reminded them of the calculator. Oh but this is different, they said – this is really evil.

Then came the mobile phone and anyone using one was deemed pretentious, rude, noisy and a general nuisance. I tried to tell people this was yet another great invention they should embrace, but no, mobile phones were unnecessary and evil.

The Internet came with its horrific porn, for what else could the Internet offer but filth and evilness?

But what mostly gets me and which tends to annoy me, is that these same people who initially didn’t want a calculator and now own 20, who didn’t want a computer and now would commit suicide without one, who resisted a mobile phone for years and have just bought one for their six year old grandchild, just continue to fall into the same lame reasoning each and every time. With any hint of change or advancement they claim abuse and yell stop! In spite of the obvious and glaring facts, they continue with each consecutive step forward, claiming that this is the one which is different to all the rest and which is totally unacceptable. They simply forget that this was always their very same attitude with all of the changes before, changes which they now so totally embrace.

There is much talk that handwriting might now be on the way out and they scream heresy. Spelling and grammar is also being questioned by many. Do we really need such strict rules on the way we talk and write? I for one would much rather communicate, understand and make myself understood in say 16 languages with little concern for such unimportant detail, rather than do so in only two or three, while following such meticulous rules. Think about it a bit and try to move away from the past. Is it really and truly necessary? All those years and effort for what? Simply not to rite in this maner were ruls are no longar hevy bat lite wile stil making perfect sens. I wod lav to be abil to rite like this in fifti langwigis and make mayself anderstud.

Yes I know it takes time, as everything else. But then, as more and more people embrace it, it finally becomes the norm and we all come to be part of it and never look back. Such is change and many people’s initial resistance to it.

Facebook is one of the latest wide sweeping changes which took the entire world by storm. All related statistics are simply mind blowing. It suffices to say that there are now 1.5 billion active monthly users and that almost one in every four people on earth has a FB account and this includes developing countries, which by far make up the majority of the world’s population.

But the biggest joke of it all is that there are still people around who laugh at us users and at the entire concept of Facebook, rather than laugh at themselves.

Do these troglodytes ride a donkey to work and make fire by rubbing two sticks?

Can they still be unaware that Facebook allows you to find friends, make new friends, keep in touch with existing ones, chat, socialise, share your experiences and those of others, participate in groups and fora of interest, play games, sell your junk, purchase more junk, find a job, find an employee, look for services and products, advertise your business, find contact details, book stuff, check out reviews, post reviews and recommendations, source all types of info, purchase anything under the sun, follow news and events, send private messages and photos and files to whom you want? Oh yes and a lot more. And all for free! Yes for free!

Most of these people use Google don’t they? So why is Google less evil? These are the people who screamed porn at the Internet in its earlier years and who now scream promiscuity and lack of privacy about Facebook. They claim that they don’t want to tell the world that they are having a shower and that they are away on vacation and to reveal photos of their most intimate moments to the world. For as soon as you join FB you are assigned an entire film crew who follow you around 24/7, into your bedroom and bathroom, filming and broadcasting your most intimate moments.

Fear is always brought about by ignorance and by the unknown and FB is certainly no exception. We all remember the old computer saying – garbage in garbage out. Well exactly the same applies to FB. You feed it exactly what you want and you and others get out of it exactly the fruit that you sow.

But I am obviously and forcibly preaching to the converted here. Only that any lingering feelings of guilt or doubt amongst frequent users should now be abandoned. We are not FB addicts but avid FB users. FB has not taken over our lives – we have chosen to use it as a convenient and super effective basis to much of our lives. We spend a lot of our time logged in, in the same way that we leave the water heater, the fridge, the aircon and the wifi switched on.

Do we have to post a pic of us dining out with our partner? No of course not, in the same way that we didn’t have to send that postcard when we were away, or make that phone call to a friend to chat about our day. Do we have to tell everyone what we’re cooking? No of course we don’t, in the same way that when meeting at parties, we don’t need to spend all night making useless small talk.

FB hasn’t changed us in any way. It has only greatly enhanced our communication capabilities, in the same way that a horse or a mule used to take us from a to b as a car does in a much quicker and more efficient manner today. Does a calculator make us count any differently? No it doesn’t. Counting is counting and 85,375 divided by 35 is 2,439 whether you do it manually and mentally, or with a calculator. The only difference if that doing it manually would probably take most of us a few hours today, if not prove to be an impossible task, while doing it with a calculator is instantaneous.

FB allows the more reserved amongst us to retain all their discretion and caution and to pick and choose what, when and with whom they communicate. It also allows the more outspoken individuals to post their news, thoughts and activities to the entire world at the click of a button, if they so wish. If you have say a thousand friends, it would take you an entire week to phone them all, or if you are perfectly organised to cc them all in an email in just a few seconds. But emails have zero interactivity and serve quite a different purpose. With FB all you do is post the exact content of you choice and let all your willing friends react to it. They can then in turn also interact with each other.

This is your showcase, your broadcasting channel, your telephone, your email, your life, your new you!

My only hope is that soon FB will learn how to heat water, cool food, refresh air and transmit broadband, then I won’t even need to invest in a water heater, a fridge, an AC unit and a modem.

Although many men today really don’t show it, most come ready fitted with a pair of testicles, while women usually have the same number of ovaries tucked safely inside them. A much safer place, you might be thinking… but that’s another story.

The main function of this peculiar paraphernalia is most naturally to reproduce, a process we have obviously kept up since the beginning of time, all culminating in this terrific moment, when I am writing this piece, somehow making it all worth while!

My point here is that reproduction, like eating and sleeping and breathing, is what we are meant to do. Like every single species in the animal kingdom, including amoebas, slugs and wildebeest, we must reproduce to survive and there are few other functions which come more naturally to us.

This is why, while I fully concur to the miracle-of-life and similar awestruck expressions of wonder, when you see the body of a fully formed baby coming forth from another, I normally disassociate myself from much of the awe and admiration today’s society enthusiastically bestows upon parenting at large. At times we exalt this most normal of functions to stratospheric and mystical levels, as if by some wondrous magic the miracle continues every day of our lives, making us parents well detached and superior to the uninitiated, to the ignorant, to the barren and wretched leper-like childless individuals who we never allow to hold our babies!

No! Move away! You childless monster you! For you have NO IDEA what it is like. Go! Go away you freak! we hisssss through our clenched teeth. Nobody, absolutely nobody without children of their own will ever even get close to ours.

So we spend many years feeling special and superior to everyone else. We are the chosen ones. We have been blessed with an extraordinary thing called a baby, which only 7.3 billion people of the current 7.3 billion world’s population once were themselves! So how special is that?

And if by this stage anyone is wondering about my own credentials on the matter, I can assure you that I am a mini celebrity on the subject. My previous wife and I have two – yes WE were pregnant twice! Although frankly I look much more pregnant now… My current wife has two, whom I also brought up myself from a very tender age. And now I also contribute enormously to the upbringing of my step grandson and godson. So I have had, and still have, my fair share of direct experience.

But in spite of this, and although I am often renowned for feeling rather special in so many amusing ways, having and raising children hasn’t particularly added to my specialness in any way. They are of course all very special individuals to me personally. The fact that I have my own biological offspring is one of the greatest joys in my life. The fact that I have also successfully brought up two other individuals of the person I love, is also extremely rewarding. And now that I am also a very big part of the first years of yet another one, fills my heart with great pleasure and elation.

But these are all personal and individual feelings. From a social, biological and anthropological perspective I have simply fulfilled one of the most basic, primitive and fundamental processes of any existing life form. I have never considered myself any more valid or relevant because my testicles work and because once they are there you sort of cannot ignore their existence all of the time.

To come to the actual daily motions of parenting, where many still seem to retain their mystical shroud of enigmatic importance, the contemporary fallacy continues. “My angel has now fallen asleep” – awe! “My prince has done a poo poo” – wow! “My princess is teething” – extraordinary! “My baby is running a temperature” – oh no the world has come to an end, let us all commit mass suicide!

And on it goes, we celebrate every tiny little poop and pee, the dark ones and the light ones, the soft ones and the hard ones, then every single individual tooth, like it was the most unexpected thing ever. A defecating child with teeth – now go fancy that! And we post zillions of pictures of them standing and sitting and lying down and crouching and walking and sleeping and each and every one of them somehow gets hundreds of likes and exactly the same comments each and every time. “Cute”, “sweetie”, “hanini”, and every other boring overused expletive, while in all probability what every man is thinking is “yes we know exactly what your dumb brat look like, now show us a bit of boob you hot milf” and what every woman is thinking “stop gloating you bitch the bastard wasn’t even planned”.

And so is modern life. We exalt mediocrity and we celebrate the most mundane. I am proud of my children’s real achievements and not of their bowel movements. I shower them in love and attention with equal doses of well aimed kicks up their lazy ass. I accept their imperfections but never condone them. And above all when they are wrong they are wrong. End of story! Laziness, mischievousness, bad decisions, stubbornness, arrogance, lying, theft and many other devious traits are present in kids too, so please STOP always blaming the parents! This is such a dumb trend, if ever there was one, never to condemn anything the child does, but always to shift the blame to the parents, the teachers, the friends and the entourage.

You can bring up two children in an identical fashion, surround them with an identical environment and still one will turn out an angel and the other a freak out of hell.

We can all see the marvelous job we are doing with our offspring. A visit to a restaurant, a public place or to the beach will quickly solve that one. You see a six year old kid swearing, spitting and hurling stones at his mother, who simply smiles and looks around to calmly tell others that he is hyperactive, poor little boy. Of course he’s hyperactive! Because you haven’t held his head for a few minutes under the water the first time he did that! He wouldn’t be hyperactive then believe me. He would be sitting wide eyed and ensuring that mummy is comfortable and having a good time. A little girl in a supermarket just stops in her tracks and screams at the very top of her voice, instantly smashing every glass window in the premises through sound waves alone, just because her mum didn’t agree to purchase her favourite flavour of crisps. Well of course she does, simply because the first time she did that you didn’t open the packet and hold it firmly over her head until she turned light blue. She would have been far too busy simply gasping for dear life to ever scream again! Probably go off crisps and dry snacks altogether….

Yes, yes of course I am being purposely cruel and terribly exaggerating – but it can be so therapeutic at times. My point here is obvious, without a bit of hard discipline we are bringing up spoilt, pampered, useless children. The saying goes that children need a lot of love and a lot of discipline and both are equally important. In the same way that you should never question your love towards them, you should never question who should get their own way. You’re older and wiser, remember, so how on earth can you let a six year old manipulate you each and every time.

Am I being a bit too hard? Well yes I suppose I am – hard on myself though. As each and every time, much as I would like to take a complacent attitude and let it be and give in to the screaming and the tantrums, I do not. Rather than taking the easy way out, I will give the matter the full attention it deserves and make the necessary effort to teach the child the best way forward. Yes it is admittedly hard. And in that restaurant when they are running around and screaming and bothering everyone around, rather than taking the easy road and totally ignoring this sad and unacceptable situation, I will again be very hard on myself and abandon my meal and company to sort out the situation fully.

In most cases we hide behind not being hard on the kids simply to be soft and weak and easy on ourselves. For disciplining kids is not always easy, without a doubt. And it does take an enormous effort to take the trouble of disciplining, teaching, instructing and guiding each and every time. That is the hard part – finding the will and the energy to do it yourself, being hard on yourself not hard on the kids!

We all think that our kids are special and they are in so many ways. Some are especially useless and annoying, as may also be the parents. So best to work on the real meaning of special, which is normally measured in real achievements such as noble character traits of kindness and generosity, ambition and determination, positiveness and honour.

Then and only then can you truly call your child special, while this only elevates you to being a normal parent.

At this time of year I always eagerly await that first cool breeze.

That first and sudden gust of cold wind which differs so much from all the others before it. After months of hot and stifling air, churning up dusty clouds over the brown and parched landscapes. Hazy horizons shimmering in hot currents of air. Burning winds beneath a relentless scorching sun, offering no respite, but blowing fiery fumes like a raging furnace.

All that is soft and gentle. A delicate and subtle kiss. Smooth manicured fingers caressing my face. Soft fragrant skin rubbing against mine.

Fragrant perfumes and fresh floral scents. Meticulously applied makeup and perfectly groomed hair. Stylish clothes and matching accessories in the form of belts and bags and shoes. So much jewellery for every occasion. And above all exotic lingerie.

Pink mobile case and violet framed glasses. Soft toys and kittens and puppies. Little cushions and candles and incense sticks placed upon carefully chosen tablecloths and beneath stylish curtains. Bouquets of flowers received with grace and displayed with flair.

Turning a house into a home like no man could do.

Tending to everyone’s needs in an indefatigable way. Shopping, cooking, serving, clearing, washing up, cleaning, ironing, folding. Never ending toil and attention around the clock, no matter the time and no matter the circumstance.

Caring for the sick and injured. Bringing hot drinks and pills and medicines and healing through kind words and a gentle touch.

Discretion in speech and actions. Daring and teasing but never crude and rough. Bodily noises and functions are neither heard nor discussed. Saucy words and innuendo, but no outright vulgarity.

Romance and spiritual love searching for poetic meaning. Sensuality in every form replacing the blunt and the too direct. Beauty of the moment in search of lyrical and romantic symbolic meanings.

Physical beauty and style expressed in curves and goddess like bodies. Unimaginable attraction created by their very being. Sexy and provocative creatures, turning heads and dropping jaws and causing traffic accidents. Breasts and legs and cleavages and navels and heavenly bums. Concealed and unashamedly glaring genitals.

Flirting and seductive looks leading to furtive moments of ambiguous intent. Sparking up of wild abandon and desire in situations which will never be unraveled nor resolved.

Passion and all that is erotic. Raw sexuality and pleasures of the flesh. Orgasmic fantasies and satisfaction.

Love. Affection and caring. Holding tight and hugging until you feel as one. Loving so much that it hurts, gradually becoming the main reason for our existence.

Decency and respect, competing only with kindness and generosity. Well thought advise and insightful direction and guidance in all matters emotional. Intense and deep.

Sharp and intuitive. Perceptive and complex beyond belief. Masters of mystery, spinning webs which they then themselves obliterate. Taking offence and revelling in emotion, complicating issues for good and for bad.

Companionship and support. Protecting and being protected while nurturing with care.

Puberty and adolescence. Menstruation and menopause. Gynaecologist and breast screening.

Mother of my child.

Breast feeding and perfect guardian. Endless motherly love, fiercely protective of their offspring.

Mystery. Secret garden. Long hair. Waxing. Loyalty and camaraderie with other women. Strength and tenacity in wrongly perceived weakness. Unbending resolve. Hardheadedness. Righteousness. Always right.

Impossible to live without.

Femininity!

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…

Here’s another one in the series of short little true and amusing stories from my very distant past.

When I was in my very early twenties I had bought a small groundfloor maisonette, which was my first property, and right in the middle of stylish Birkirkara. Naturally I was still learning a lot about life and the wondrous creatures people can be.

Directly above me were a very Maltese, very Birkirakara, elderly couple. They seemingly fell in love with me, in a surrogate parents sort of way. At each occasion they saw me they showered me with compliments and pleasantries. So it was constantly a matter of how much they liked me, how they would always help me, how if I ever needed anything from them – absolutely anything, all I had to do was ask, etc. etc. etc. It was really all quite surreal, and as a young boy starting off in life I naturally believed it all to be genuine.

I often used to work until late at night, so I used to try and sleep in late in the morning. However they had the habit of waking up very early, as most elderly people do, and turn on the radio at full blast the moment they were up. To make matters much worse, it was Summer and all windows were open. Their radio was just next to a window leading onto a small yard where also I had my bedroom window wide open, just a few feet below. So if anything the yard amplified the noise and it was literally like having a blaring radio next to my ear.

I was rudely woken up after just a couple of hours sleep on two or three consecutive occasions. So naturally as these people loved me like their son, and only wanted what was good for me, and insisted so many times that I let them know if ever I needed anything, I decided to ask them this very big and important favour, which under the circumstances was very understandable.

So the next morning as soon as I jumped in shock and terror in my bed, some time before 6am, I put on a pair of shorts and went out into the yard and called them. They came to their window and I very politely and extremely civilly explained that I work nights and that their radio was extremely loud and that it would be infinitely kind of them if they could just lower it a tiny little bit.

There! I was pleased with myself for having handled this situation in such a friendly and gentlemanly manner. After all isn’t that what loving neighbours are for and amongst intelligent people communication is always the key to everything.

These thoughts lasted less than two seconds, as when my humble plea had sunk into their hairy ears, they just simply lost it and went plain starking mad. They started screaming, yelling, howling, barking, swearing, shouting obscenities at me, insulting me and much of my family, including relatives I didn’t even know existed. They made several gender based errors concerning genitalia, they banged and they swore and they huffed and they puffed and in the end all they did was spitefully turn the radio even louder, setting it totally on full blast just to make their point loud and clear. The few intelligible words I understood in the vicious tirade were something to the tune of ‘you little shit, you move in here and expect us to live the way that suits you when we have lived here so much longer’. There were also a couple of ‘ja kiesah tahseb li int xi haga ghax titkellem bl-inliz” (you arrogant sod thinking you’re something special just because you speak in English). Now I don’t know where that came from…

I was literally shaking. I didn’t know what hit me. I simply couldn’t understand how these kind and lovely people, who until a few minutes before were totally besotted by me, had suddenly snapped into terrifying monsters.

I walked back to bed, miserable, disenchanted, disappointed and deceived by humanity at large. But as I lay there in bed, listening to their force-fed blaring radio, another even stronger side of me slowly emerged. The determined, resolute, obstinate, unwavering, undaunted and unintimidated side of me.

So I smugly went to work that evening and rushed back home eagerly at around 2 am. I moved my rather large stereo right out into the yard and remember even placing the large speakers on their backs so as to face upwards. I cleverly choose a Led Zeppelin cassette specifically for their soft, harmonious style, and it wasn’t Stairway to Heaven either, but some of their much heavier stuff. I pressed that magic on switch and instantly proceeded to push up the volume onto maximum. The immense noise somehow shot gallons of adrenaline into my bloodstream, compelling me to scream at the very top of my voice crazed la la’s in a mock singalong with the wild music. The noise was truly deafening and this in turn made me madder and madder and more excited, to the extent that I even found it hard to stop.

When I finally started coming to my senses and was getting both exhausted and hoarse with all the screaming, I finally stopped and switched off the music. And I sat there in the perfect silence, my ears still ringing, waiting for something, anything, some form of reply or reaction from them. But no, nothing. Absolutely nothing. So I packed up my gear and went to sleep.

Now perhaps here the outcome is easily guessed. We never talked again from that day on, but they never ever turned their radio up loud again. It was always kept at an exceedingly low level.

I am not particularly proud of what I did. I would have by far preferred discussing the matter like civilised human beings, but unfortunately this doesn’t work with many people. Sadly you have to resort to such extreme measures to be heard. I am the gentlest of people and that is my normal state, however admittedly if provoked I take huge amounts of pleasure in beating down my adversaries. I never strike out gratuitously at anyone, it really isn’t my style. But if I know I am right, I will raise hell and high water to obtain justice.

Just another of my perfect traits I suppose!

I am afraid that in my normal fashion and in spite of my initial good intentions, things always start to degenerate sooner rather than later. And my mini series of amusing childhood stories is no different and certainly not immune to this natural decay of decency and respectability.

But what is true is true and ultimately begs to be revealed, for it is simply a real narrative of past experience, even if certain elements may be far from savoury.

I was here in my mid teens which was an entirely different world to the one we live in today. Suffice to say that, as we will be speaking of traffic and related matters, sometimes you didn’t even see one single vehicle on the road.

I distinctly remember driving to the airport with my father, either from Rabat, or later on from Balzan, at the middle of the night, to pick up friends coming from England, when we literally didn’t see one single car all the way. No, not one!

Similarly, as we used to spend our Summers in Xemxija, where I had many friends, some of whom remained there later, before returning to their Winter homes, or even lived there throughout the year, I had problems getting a lift home after we moved back to our Winter home in Balzan. In those days the last bus was at 8pm and if you missed it you had to walk or hitchhike. I can remember many an occasion when I tried to get a lift at night and all the way from Xemxija to Balzan no more that two or three cars would pass my way throughout the entire journey.

So we paid bitterly for those few extra moments with friends, usually resulting in a couple of hours of walking home. But at that age who cared!

This is just to indicate the ominous nature of the last bus. Or should I say The Last BUS!

Yes you either made it or you didn’t. And if you didn’t you’d then might as well stay on much longer with your friends, before facing that two hour walk. But on the days you intended to get that bus, then you did your damn best not to miss it.

On one such occasion I remember that I just about made it, by running desperately to the bus stop as I saw the old chugging bus approaching. Had I arrived only a few seconds later, I would have missed it for sure. My strenuous sprint in no way helped my already groggy state. I had indulged in some wine, which we all did in those days, in spite of our tender age and at the time what we called wine wouldn’t even be added to olive oil to embellish a salad today, and that is no joke. Just to effectively drive my point home, does anyone remember Special Reserve? Well as the name indicates, that was reserved for special occasions, as we normally drank much more modest crap, which I won’t even refer to as wine. I had also smoked a few cigarettes, as one does when one desperately wants to look cool and older.

So I jumped onto that last bus and to my horror it was packed solid and steaming hot inside, with dozens of sweating human bodies. “Oh no, air conditioned buses still won’t arriva in Malta for another 35 years” I astutely thought to myself in unparalleled insight. I pushed and I shoved just to create for myself a small standing space amongst the rest of the solid, sweating, huddling crowd.

I didn’t feel too good at all. The heat, the stench of human sweat, the hot breath all around, the occasional whiff of nauseating flatulence, the long bumpy ride, the sudden braking, the mad swerving from left to right. All a vicious conspiracy to turn my stomach inside out. It gradually became worse and worse. First I felt my stomach form a painful knot. Then as the terrifying realisation set in that I could do nothing about it, that there was absolutely nowhere I could relieve myself, that the only possible way would be to get off the bus and walk all the way home, in spite of my wretched state, that’s when it really hit me.

Suddenly the knot in my stomach let go. My stomach not only opened but it wanted to suddenly overflow. I panicked. What could I do? I felt that I couldn’t hold on any longer. The entire contents of my stomach were about to erupt. I looked around desperately trying to work out a plan. I was literally squashed between other huddled bodies and there was absolutely nowhere to go. The one only option was to push my way out, jump off the bus, do my terrible business and walk the rest of the way home.

But then suddenly it was simply too late. Too late even to think about what I could do.

Now I don’t usually stop the story half way through, especially at the very peak of my narrative. But I will make an exception here. If you get queasy and sickened quite easily, if you get revolted by graphic material and filth, then please stop here, because it’s about to get bad, very bad. So you have been warned! Stop reading!

So my stomach opened and simply refused to continue holding in its putrid contents. In a huge powerful rush it all came racing up. I desperately held my mouth shut as best I could, but the pressure and the force was far too strong. The vomit not only filled my mouth but squirted out of my tightly pursed lips. I pressed and I pressed for nothing. Strong hot jets of disgusting vomit sprayed out of my swollen cheeks in every direction, showering people’s backs and arms and heads and faces all around, not unlike an exorcist sort of way.

But there was nothing anyone could do. Nobody wanted to get off and miss that last bus.

So there I was trying to desperately and unsuccessfully hold it in, all in vain. And with each massive and successive heave I again and again tried to hold it in my mouth, but there simply was too much. So I was transformed into a stomach-churning vomit fountain, spraying those both close and far, as I slowly rotated my head from side to side to spread out the proceeds equally for fear of drowning any one individual.

What made the situation worse, much worse, was that to somehow contain the gallons of rancid, macedoine-like, regurgitated spew, I also tried swallowing back much of it to hold it in. After years of hindsight I can still attest that this was not a very good idea. This foul hot retch is really not what you want to push back down your throat without inciting much more spewing as a direct consequence. So I vomited, filled my cheeks to their full extent, sprayed around a bit on my fellow passengers and swallowed back the rest, only to vomit even stronger again and again.

Well that sums up much of the journey to Balzan that evening. And with every heave and ensuing spraying there was a collective scream from all the passengers, followed by a sigh of relief when I swallowed much of it down.

Yet nobody got off. Nobody even asked me to leave. Hey this was the last bus remember, so we were in it all together until the bitter, vomit tasting end.

But in the end I didn’t want to be much of a nuisance for everyone, so I got off a couple of bus stops earlier, to offer them some relief. I am always kind and considerate in that way and just hate to impose. So I made a rather big sacrifice and walked a couple of extra yards home.

A General Analysis of Area Comparatives – Bugibba vs Sliema

I first intended to write this as a review, but then decided to turn it into a rant, as I can have much more fun with it here wink emoticon

We are extremely lucky to live in the countryside, in a very quiet and totally rural location, between Burmarrad and Naxxar, surrounded by fields, valleys and hills. The closest towns to us are Bugibba, Qawra and St. Pauls Bay, which collectively are part of the St. Pauls Bay local council. This has become today, by far the largest and most populated town in Malta.

However, although this is now Malta’s largest locality, even in terms of inhabitants, much is still lacking, especially with regards to infrastructure. Traffic access has always been very difficult, and it now seems that with the new Coast Road disaster, the situation will certainly become terribly worse, thanks to the crass incompetence of our foolish authorities.

Rather than opening up many new thoroughfares to start easing access for the thousands of inhabitants, the new roadworks have incredulously closed off access via Triq J. F. Kennedy, opposite the now obliterated Kennedy Grove, as well the the very main road itself – Pioneer Road, for all traffic coming up North. This means that now literally all traffic from all of Malta going North, including all that going to the beaches and to Gozo, will have to join all traffic going into Malta’s largest locality, at the roundabout just outside St Pauls Bay, which also leads to the bypass. At this point it would be interesting to find out two things : if this will now be the busiest roundabout on Earth, and if Transport Malta’s stupidity and incompetence can ever be beaten anywhere on the entire planet within the next couple of millennia. Think about it! In Summer the St Pauls/Bugibba/Qawra locality is by far the most populous, and all access to it has to imperatively pass through one single roundabout where all commuters to beaches and to Gozo must also pass! Hmmm absolutely lovely!

Ok now that the important stuff has been said, let us move on to more mundane, unimportant matters tongue emoticon And without further ado I will go straight to the point. The Bugibba area has always been frowned on by a certain category of Maltese. Now I am not known for my political correctness, and I am not either particularly set at being brash and purposely politically incorrect. Basically I report it the way it is and frankly I have absolutely no agenda one way or another. I just say it the way it is, admittedly with little respect for those who have no spine or spleen to express themselves in normal straightforward terms and hide behind their own self-imposed inexpression!

So here goes – the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth!

Yes, a certain category of Maltese have always considered Bugibba to be the pits and I must admit that I never had a very good impression either. We never frequented this part of the island before, but now that we live so close, it is only normal that we tempt fate, leave behind us all the old boring Maltese stereotypes, and take an objective look at the matter, beyond all preconception. Things change and unless you experience them yourself firsthand, you will remain a slave of collective thinking.

Over the past few months we have managed to have quite a few good meals in various restaurants in the area, following specific recommendation and careful selection. So I must admit that our overall impression of the area had started to significantly improve. Yes there are some good restaurants in Bugibba/Qawra, if you know where to go at least.

So with this in mind, yesterday evening we tried something different. Why should Bugibba be any different to anywhere else on earth, where you can simply stroll around the streets and just select the eatery of your choice based on what should also be a very effective method – that of actually viewing the establishment in front of your very eyes. We were there anyway, running some important errands, so we decided for once, to get ourselves a relatively simple meal, without having to conduct weeks of research on the matter.

Most of the roads in Qawra and Bugibba are literally dotted with catering establishments, so it wasn’t a matter of finding an eatery, but more one of choosing which one to go to.

I won’t even mention names in this case, because as you will eventually see this is quite unnecessary. We just proceeded on the assumption that Bugibba is no longer the pits, no longer a shabby forsaken hovel based on our distant and dark three star shoddy budget tourism past. So we confidently walked into the first semi decent looking establishment.

A very miserable, English sounding server, came up to us and while literally staring at the ceiling said “Yes?”. We informed him that we would like a drink first before we ordered food, and asked for a bloody mary. He just about laughed at us and informed us that they “don’t serve those sort of things”, so we went for gin and tonics and looked at the menu. He came back with two tiny glasses with no ice, no slice of lemon, there must have been half a gin and two drops of tonic in there. Totally shocking stuff and when I very politely asked for some sort of enhancement there was an audible pfff!

So naturally we drank our repulsive drink, paid up and gladly moved on somewhere else.

We walked down the road and saw a nice looking establishment prominently placed in the corner of two streets. We sat and ask for two bloody mary’s. The waitress just looked up at the sky and simply uttered the word “no”. I realised that what she meant in her infinite helpfulness and customer care skills, was that she had never heard of such a weird drink, so again we changed out order to G&T’s. They came with no smile, no politeness, no consideration whatsoever, so again we thankfully decided to move on.

I must admit that already at this stage we were just about starting to change the focus of our outing, from that of having a quick light informal meal, to conducting some form of intriguing survey of Bugibba eateries. Thankfully it doesn’t take long for us to find the fun in everything, especially when there’s drink involved.

So we sort of accepted our fate, looked at each other in mutual understanding, gave a knowing nod, and went for it heart and soul. Someone’s got to do it and the truth should finally be revealed about this part of the island once and for all.

We landed at our third establishment, this time being a bit more wary. So we totally abandoned our bloody mary expectations, we just ask for two gin and tonics. But again, the server who in this case sounded eastern european was very unwelcoming and brash. There was no way on earth that we would have an entire meal there and as he virtually slammed our drinks on the table with his heavily tattooed arms, we drank up, paid and moved on.

Our next stop was in Bugibba Square itself, in one of the very main establishments there, where the servers were Maltese. Ours again looked up in the air while taking our order – there really must be something special about the sky over Bugibba, because wherever we went the staff always gazed blankly at it. As their drinks menu consisted of endless pages of the most intricate cocktails, we again stupidly expected that mixing vodka with tomato juice would be within their realm of competence. But yet again we were wrong. So again, based on the marked lack of care and friendliness, we headed elsewhere after our drink.

Before describing our fifth episode, I simply have to say that we were virtually flabbergasted at the average person around, and this included serving staff, fellow customers sitting in the establishments, as well as passersby. I kid you not, but the amount of terribly obese, rough looking, cheap sounding, ugly, even freakish, weird, unstylish, badly dressed, redneck, foulmouthed, disgusting individuals we encountered, was simply beyond belief. We started to feel that that we were the only normal people around. Much as this might sound improbable, it is the plain truth.

This is not being pretentious, it is not a class thing, it is not being snobbish, it is a simple and real observation one really cannot help but make.

The tourists there have somehow remained the middle aged and elderly English lager louts par excellence, all sitting there with their massive beer bellies spewing from under their soiled undervests, burping and farting as they reach out with their massive tattooed arms for their pint – and that’s just the ladies!

The British bucket and spade brigade have also visibly been joined by many other nationalities and also races, all of which have about the same amount of class and finesse as them.

The few Maltese people you see around are really not the finest examples either. There seem to be certain selected places where these Malteserthals tend to congregate and Mater Dei is definitely one of them. Each time I have to go to hospital I wonder in awe where these people crawl out from as they shuffle around on their webbed feet and gesticulate wildly with their unopposable thumbs. Well there certainly must be a direct bus between Mater Dei and Bugibba…

So off we trot to our next baffling experience which was a nice waterfront establishment where an unidentifiable, genderless, obese, sunglasses wearing, keys hanging out of jeans, bartender served us ready mixed gin and tonics in small bottles accompanied by plastic glasses with no ice. At this point we were actually revelling in the surreality of it all and had long given up even trying to have dinner. We just happily tottered from one dump to another expecting the worst, and the worst we truly got, time and time again.

I cannot even remember if it was the sixth or the seventh, as we had truly lost count by then. But the last place we stopped at was another rather large eatery, this time on the stylish Tourists Street, which was purposely designed as a cross between Rodeo Drive, Champs Elysees and Bond Street. Served again here by an Eastern European bloke, we finally found someone decent and nice. He actually looked at us when he spoke to us and even remembered what it was to smile – our very first one of the evening, six or seven establishments later!

We have found some nice places to eat in Bugibba, when we went straight to these rare establishments. In many of the shops and outlets we specifically go to in the area, where logically other Maltese and non-Maltese residents congregate, we have also found the general level of service to be good. However when we threw ourselves out at random and tried out what the average tourist would encounter, we were instantly sucked back into a third-rate, cheap, 1970’s scenario, which was rather shocking and where little has changed for decades.

To sum up our experience, yes, there is absolutely no doubt about it. There are still enormous differences between Bugibba and the Sliema/St Julians area. In spite of the few new fine establishments which have so far managed to survive in this area, much of it remains the pits, there is unfortunately no better description for it. Prices are significantly cheaper than in Sliema, but if you want the cheapest booze then simply stay and drink at home.

But it just goes to show how a tourist’s experience could be entirely different if staying in St Julians or if staying in Bugibba…

It was doubles we were both drinking all evening, so by the end of it, as we visibly staggered towards the car, we too started to blend in nicely with the Bugibba crowd. As they say, spend enough time in a place and you too become part of it!