Or more like 'at the foot of the cliff'.. or 'on the edge of the chasm'.
The body count in Asia is more like 110,000 people and counting, though we'll never know. And more than a million people have had their lives shattered by what happened.
Max has got lost in the tragedy of numbers and stopped watching TV. He logs on to the BBC site, watches the body count, switches to a Football site, reads about millionaires being lined up for transfers in the January transfer window, shops for food essentials, thinks, tries not to think. Liz has gone down with a bad bout of gastric 'flu and threw up in the garden. Jacob runs around like a clockwork orange, oblivioius of his mother's illness. In the end, Max gives up and administers the only drug at hand, the new Pinocchio DVD. Jacob is now perched on his blue potty, glued to the 1940's classic.
Elsewhere, the remnants of Max's friends will gather for their usual piss up and singalong. Max's sister has bought herself a furry top. Max's Dad has been roped in as babysitter. And the new year will be seen in to the traditional flurry of merry-making.
Max cannot stop thinking of mass graves and bodies caked up, like bits of plaster in an unsound structure.
Jonathan Head of the BBC in Banda Aceh, Indonesia: Water is the most critical problem here. The entire water supply has been contaminated - you can't imagine how they could clean it up as the number of bodies is just overwhelming.
I've just come from Thailand where it was pretty shocking but nothing compares to the health problems presented here by the thousands and thousands of bodies and the inability of the authorities and the survivors to deal with it. They are digging mass graves now but the number littered around is just staggering.
The entire town - where it hasn't been levelled - is covered in a sea of filthy mud with bodies and bits of rubble stuck in it. I think the authorities are going to have to think about moving people out because it's just uninhabitable.
There aren't the resources to clean up a mess this staggeringly big - the place looks as though a giant has picked it up, shaken it, torn it to pieces and then thrown this layer of mud, rubble and bodies across it.
All the people I've spoken to here say there is no more Banda Aceh. They're packing their bags and leaving whatever way they can.
On another day, another planet, this space would have been filled by lines of hope. Max, instead, thinks that the only appropriate blog, right now, is silence. And some stoic resolve.
To survive. Into the new year.
Friday, December 31, 2004
Thursday, December 30, 2004
The real tsunami
Welcome to an entirely new vernacular.
Today's word is 'tsunami'. It used to stand for a shrill Manic Street Preachers song from some forgettable album.
Now it stands for total destruction, for paradise lost, for possibly one hundred thousand souls drowned or battered in a flood that some religious freak will one day associate with the apocalypse.
Tsunamis after Christmas, before the close of the year, before people really had time to make a wish, hug their loved ones, and get inebriated in some loud, lonely party.
This year, Max has decided to pass on traditional New Year's Eve parties, or dinner parties with friends. Max will stay home, drink a glass of wine with Liz, and plan the future.
With a vengeance.
Today's word is 'tsunami'. It used to stand for a shrill Manic Street Preachers song from some forgettable album.
Now it stands for total destruction, for paradise lost, for possibly one hundred thousand souls drowned or battered in a flood that some religious freak will one day associate with the apocalypse.
Tsunamis after Christmas, before the close of the year, before people really had time to make a wish, hug their loved ones, and get inebriated in some loud, lonely party.
This year, Max has decided to pass on traditional New Year's Eve parties, or dinner parties with friends. Max will stay home, drink a glass of wine with Liz, and plan the future.
With a vengeance.
Monday, December 27, 2004
Friday, December 24, 2004
Christmas is served
There is a slight chance there will be snow in London, but no hope of that in Malta. Instead, the temperature has dropped to 15 degrees, but it feels like zero because stone houses are not made for winter. People with paraffin heaters make financial computations in their head to ration usage. The fat cats with fat cars cruise by Cafe Oasis and overfeed their designer children. Gift wrapping is a national obession.
Max has bought Jacob a plastic digger, three Percy the Park-keeper books, and Pinocchio and Lion King DVDs. Max has bought Liz a blender and Jamie Oliver's latest. Max has bought himself a string on DVDs which he will probably never watch, but which look great, still sealed in Play.com packaging.
Tonight, Liz will leave a glass of wine and a mince pie, to solicit Santa's visit, to fill socks, kiss sleeping angels and bring good luck to a household that needs it like millions of others. And for Max's friend Maurizio, living the darkest of Christmases... may he find a way out of the abyss, and realise that things come in cycles, and there there is only one way to go.
Up.
Max has bought Jacob a plastic digger, three Percy the Park-keeper books, and Pinocchio and Lion King DVDs. Max has bought Liz a blender and Jamie Oliver's latest. Max has bought himself a string on DVDs which he will probably never watch, but which look great, still sealed in Play.com packaging.
Tonight, Liz will leave a glass of wine and a mince pie, to solicit Santa's visit, to fill socks, kiss sleeping angels and bring good luck to a household that needs it like millions of others. And for Max's friend Maurizio, living the darkest of Christmases... may he find a way out of the abyss, and realise that things come in cycles, and there there is only one way to go.
Up.
Thursday, December 16, 2004
Check up
This afternoon Max went for a heart check up. He arrived at the Capua Hospital in the usual heap, having spent nearly two hours in a meeting on a potential start up that ground gradually to a halt. By the time he was whisked away to the 'Executive Screening' Nurse, Max was prepared for any kind of bad news.
Max's two-hour stint involved:
(1) Being weighed (74 kilos - Max wondered how much of the weight could be blamed on winter clothing)
(2) Being measured (height unknown, Max told the nurse he was cheating as he was still wearing his shoes)
(3) Pissing in small beaker (not a problem, having consumed several coffees in the futile start-up meeting; urine surprisingly warm and golden coloured, which made Max think of the Indian premier who used to drink his own piss for good fortune)
(4) Blowing in a hollow tube and watching an electronic meter (the nurse cooed approvingly)
(5) Getting a chest x-ray (the x-ray man was more impressed by Max's twisted scoliosis spine than Max's heart - long sigh as the x-ray was mounted on to the flourescent screen on the wall
(6) Answering plenty of questions on family illnesses, pneumonias, diets
(7) Getting startled when the doctor said that he knew most of Max's family - Dr Montfort had even looked after Max's mother, while she was dying of Hogkins' disease in 1984. Dr Montfort said that if his mother had contracted Hogkins' now, most probably she would have been saved.
(8) Getting startled when the doctor said that his cholesterol level was high, even for a 43 year-old. Max was asked if he drank alcohol - Max confessed to a glass of wine and several cups of coffee. Max was told to cut on the caffeine.
(9) Getting part of his chest shaved for a cardio-vascular test on the treadmill.
(10) Puffing his way through a series of inclines on the treadmill.
(11) Getting told that he had a perfect bill of health, except for the high cholesterol, which would mean another check up in six months' time.
(12) Getting severe palpitations when he was given the bill for the exercise.
This evening, Max passed on the option of pasta with broccoli and gorgonzola, and went for pasta with broccoli, anchovies and pine nuts. Plus one glass of wine.
Max wonders how many people would be saved if they got sick twenty years later than they actually did.
Max's chest is itching from the shaving.
Max is going to spend some time searching for 'cholesterol' and 'wine', hoping there is no obvious linkage.
Max is listening to a tribute show for the late John Peel, who also died of heart failure. But not before championing some of the most exciting, dangerous, obscure and life-changing music of the twentieth century.
Max's two-hour stint involved:
(1) Being weighed (74 kilos - Max wondered how much of the weight could be blamed on winter clothing)
(2) Being measured (height unknown, Max told the nurse he was cheating as he was still wearing his shoes)
(3) Pissing in small beaker (not a problem, having consumed several coffees in the futile start-up meeting; urine surprisingly warm and golden coloured, which made Max think of the Indian premier who used to drink his own piss for good fortune)
(4) Blowing in a hollow tube and watching an electronic meter (the nurse cooed approvingly)
(5) Getting a chest x-ray (the x-ray man was more impressed by Max's twisted scoliosis spine than Max's heart - long sigh as the x-ray was mounted on to the flourescent screen on the wall
(6) Answering plenty of questions on family illnesses, pneumonias, diets
(7) Getting startled when the doctor said that he knew most of Max's family - Dr Montfort had even looked after Max's mother, while she was dying of Hogkins' disease in 1984. Dr Montfort said that if his mother had contracted Hogkins' now, most probably she would have been saved.
(8) Getting startled when the doctor said that his cholesterol level was high, even for a 43 year-old. Max was asked if he drank alcohol - Max confessed to a glass of wine and several cups of coffee. Max was told to cut on the caffeine.
(9) Getting part of his chest shaved for a cardio-vascular test on the treadmill.
(10) Puffing his way through a series of inclines on the treadmill.
(11) Getting told that he had a perfect bill of health, except for the high cholesterol, which would mean another check up in six months' time.
(12) Getting severe palpitations when he was given the bill for the exercise.
This evening, Max passed on the option of pasta with broccoli and gorgonzola, and went for pasta with broccoli, anchovies and pine nuts. Plus one glass of wine.
Max wonders how many people would be saved if they got sick twenty years later than they actually did.
Max's chest is itching from the shaving.
Max is going to spend some time searching for 'cholesterol' and 'wine', hoping there is no obvious linkage.
Max is listening to a tribute show for the late John Peel, who also died of heart failure. But not before championing some of the most exciting, dangerous, obscure and life-changing music of the twentieth century.
Thursday, December 09, 2004
Crossing one's legs
Max can now go back to his usual life.
The ten-day marathon work session of non-stop work is over. Max is not quite sure what all of it will lead to. But at least he can go back to whatever it is that Max used to do before he got locked into a never-ending cycle of reports, presentations, brainstorming, e-business, online learning, team-building, budgeting, PowerPointing, bad food eating, male-bonding, waking up after four hours sleep of more of the same.
Max surfaces to see that the important things in life are still intact. Jacob still remembers his father. Smudge is still fat.And men round the world are faced with a new threat. Just as well that there is probably no longer a need for his reproductive prowess in years to come. And anyway, his Sony Vaio's battery died more than two years ago.
Max wonders whether he could justify buying himself a new laptop for Christmas.
The ten-day marathon work session of non-stop work is over. Max is not quite sure what all of it will lead to. But at least he can go back to whatever it is that Max used to do before he got locked into a never-ending cycle of reports, presentations, brainstorming, e-business, online learning, team-building, budgeting, PowerPointing, bad food eating, male-bonding, waking up after four hours sleep of more of the same.
Max surfaces to see that the important things in life are still intact. Jacob still remembers his father. Smudge is still fat.And men round the world are faced with a new threat. Just as well that there is probably no longer a need for his reproductive prowess in years to come. And anyway, his Sony Vaio's battery died more than two years ago.
Max wonders whether he could justify buying himself a new laptop for Christmas.
Monday, December 06, 2004
Lost Souls
Max has been away from this blog.
For the past 10 days or so, Max has been in front of this PC, working away at an e-business Strategic Plan. The Plan was delivered this afternoon.
In the meantime, outside his room, beyond the spikes of the Yucca, the usual shit was happening. Margaret Hassan was shot in the head. “Mother” was voted the favourite word from a poll of thousands in non English-speaking countries. A lost soul went sailing over the rails of the Empire State Building.The price of kerosene was doubled to the price of diesel because the Prime Minister claimed the nation was cheating the Government out of taxes on fuel. And Max’s friend Mr. Silver, now in Virgina BC, emailed Max with some advice. Here it is:
“Max, you really are a talented s.o.b. Would you be offended, if I offer you some advice? If so, read no further.
If not, let me first suggest to you that you should not keep a diary, notwithstanding that it can be seen to be very amusing. The problem is, it serves to reinforce any depression you are feeling. What I have done and, from time to time when I can find the discipline to do it, is write a fantasy. Develop a super hero - something completely different from your day to day life experience. The hero, being a hero, will serve to bring up your own mood and, if you can hit a winning formula, could be the next SpiderMan. A good outlet for your writing talents.”
Max has thought about this, but is not sure that he will take Mr Silver’s advice. Not through any disrespect to Mr Silver, a man whose advice and intellect Max has long admired. Max is just not sure that he is depressed. Max knows that he is in a bubble that he needs to burst so he can get to the next room. He can see the room, it is in a calmer place, and it does not very different to his own, with Jacob lying on the red sofa, watching Shrek, asking Max to do his ‘Goolie Bird’ impression. He just needs to get to it.
For the record, Max managed to recover from three hours sleep to deliver a decent presentation on e-business and English Language Schools. Max’s client clapped, and told him it was a great presentation, even though Max looked like shit.
Max’s favourite word has always been the four-letter expletive – nothing quite like the violence of the trapped air exploding through clenched teeth graving over parched lips.
Max wonders if he will have to mutate into a super-hero to get out of the bubble. Or whether he will do what he always does in the end: graft, drive, wriggle out. To a better place.
For the past 10 days or so, Max has been in front of this PC, working away at an e-business Strategic Plan. The Plan was delivered this afternoon.
In the meantime, outside his room, beyond the spikes of the Yucca, the usual shit was happening. Margaret Hassan was shot in the head. “Mother” was voted the favourite word from a poll of thousands in non English-speaking countries. A lost soul went sailing over the rails of the Empire State Building.The price of kerosene was doubled to the price of diesel because the Prime Minister claimed the nation was cheating the Government out of taxes on fuel. And Max’s friend Mr. Silver, now in Virgina BC, emailed Max with some advice. Here it is:
“Max, you really are a talented s.o.b. Would you be offended, if I offer you some advice? If so, read no further.
If not, let me first suggest to you that you should not keep a diary, notwithstanding that it can be seen to be very amusing. The problem is, it serves to reinforce any depression you are feeling. What I have done and, from time to time when I can find the discipline to do it, is write a fantasy. Develop a super hero - something completely different from your day to day life experience. The hero, being a hero, will serve to bring up your own mood and, if you can hit a winning formula, could be the next SpiderMan. A good outlet for your writing talents.”
Max has thought about this, but is not sure that he will take Mr Silver’s advice. Not through any disrespect to Mr Silver, a man whose advice and intellect Max has long admired. Max is just not sure that he is depressed. Max knows that he is in a bubble that he needs to burst so he can get to the next room. He can see the room, it is in a calmer place, and it does not very different to his own, with Jacob lying on the red sofa, watching Shrek, asking Max to do his ‘Goolie Bird’ impression. He just needs to get to it.
For the record, Max managed to recover from three hours sleep to deliver a decent presentation on e-business and English Language Schools. Max’s client clapped, and told him it was a great presentation, even though Max looked like shit.
Max’s favourite word has always been the four-letter expletive – nothing quite like the violence of the trapped air exploding through clenched teeth graving over parched lips.
Max wonders if he will have to mutate into a super-hero to get out of the bubble. Or whether he will do what he always does in the end: graft, drive, wriggle out. To a better place.
Wednesday, November 24, 2004
The empty house
When Jacob is away, the house gets sullen. The clock finds its voice. The hum of the PCs is louder. Toys are limp, the garden looks windswept and ruffled, piles of dirty plates pile in the sink.
Max cannot quite remember what it was like before Jacob arrived.
For sure, he had more time to think, more time to spend with Liz, just more time.
Max tries to think of what he did with all the time he had.
Max hears Jacob rush in downstairs, with his carer Joyce a few paces behind, in full chase.
Max doesn't have to think any more.
Max cannot quite remember what it was like before Jacob arrived.
For sure, he had more time to think, more time to spend with Liz, just more time.
Max tries to think of what he did with all the time he had.
Max hears Jacob rush in downstairs, with his carer Joyce a few paces behind, in full chase.
Max doesn't have to think any more.
Thursday, November 18, 2004
End of the roller coaster?
Max is trying to work. He is in the middle of drafting an e-business strategy for an English Language School. It is a difficult time, work is not plentiful and Max is running late. Worse, Max is experiencing writer's block. He is spending an inappropriate amount of time reading other people's blogs and day-dreaming.
And this morning, Liz decided to get Joe, the Siggiewi handyman, to do building work on the garden.
Max scrambled the Internet to look for good news. He may have found it in The Times' snippet on the Siggiewi road. To say that the track to Siggiewi is a disgrace is an understatement. Max has lost hub caps, had a door damaged by a piece of flying rock and probably dislocated a couple of discs in his twisted spine in return for the pleasure of driving through the moon craters. Now Government appears to have a change of heart and is planning to sort out the 2.5km track from the Zebbug roundabout to Max's home.
Max remembers there was a time in his life when he didn't worry about road surfaces, when he used to drive decent cars and didn't drive every day in fear of his life.
Max tries to remember that he returned to Malta for the 'quality of life'.
Yesterday Max met a lawyer who deals with 'high value individuals who occasionally wish to use Malta for fiscal purposes.' The lawyer said that he only ever fllies in his clients on private jet and preferably at night 'so they don't see the dump I've landed them in.'
Max thinks that the high value individuals could do worse than land on Malta's most significant man-made asset.Here it is...
And this morning, Liz decided to get Joe, the Siggiewi handyman, to do building work on the garden.
Max scrambled the Internet to look for good news. He may have found it in The Times' snippet on the Siggiewi road. To say that the track to Siggiewi is a disgrace is an understatement. Max has lost hub caps, had a door damaged by a piece of flying rock and probably dislocated a couple of discs in his twisted spine in return for the pleasure of driving through the moon craters. Now Government appears to have a change of heart and is planning to sort out the 2.5km track from the Zebbug roundabout to Max's home.
Max remembers there was a time in his life when he didn't worry about road surfaces, when he used to drive decent cars and didn't drive every day in fear of his life.
Max tries to remember that he returned to Malta for the 'quality of life'.
Yesterday Max met a lawyer who deals with 'high value individuals who occasionally wish to use Malta for fiscal purposes.' The lawyer said that he only ever fllies in his clients on private jet and preferably at night 'so they don't see the dump I've landed them in.'
Max thinks that the high value individuals could do worse than land on Malta's most significant man-made asset.Here it is...
Monday, November 15, 2004
You are what you eat
Monday morning under a watery sun. It's suddenly got cold. Max is still running barefoot in his room, but his toes are curling up.
Max has just made himself an early grey tea and half a toasted baguette with Mexican cheese.
Max is getting a pot belly. He derives some comfort in an article in the Observer on French women's eating habits . Max thinks that if it works for French babes, it should work for middle-aged, angsted Maltese blokes.
Max is trying to finish off a piece of work, but his mind, like always, on Mondays, is elsewhere.
Max has been in touch with an old friend from his London days. Colin Cumming has morphed from an IT specialist into a full-time farmer in New Zealand. In Colin's words... "I am currently a gentleman farmer having hung up my Air Miles boots."
Max thinks he would have like to have spent his life investigating the eating habits of attractive young women around the world. Though how this would not have led to an increase in waist-line in lonely drinks in the hotel bar is another thing...
Max thinks he needs to get a life.
Max has just made himself an early grey tea and half a toasted baguette with Mexican cheese.
Max is getting a pot belly. He derives some comfort in an article in the Observer on French women's eating habits . Max thinks that if it works for French babes, it should work for middle-aged, angsted Maltese blokes.
Max is trying to finish off a piece of work, but his mind, like always, on Mondays, is elsewhere.
Max has been in touch with an old friend from his London days. Colin Cumming has morphed from an IT specialist into a full-time farmer in New Zealand. In Colin's words... "I am currently a gentleman farmer having hung up my Air Miles boots."
Max thinks he would have like to have spent his life investigating the eating habits of attractive young women around the world. Though how this would not have led to an increase in waist-line in lonely drinks in the hotel bar is another thing...
Max thinks he needs to get a life.
Saturday, November 13, 2004
Friday, November 12, 2004
Man quits work
Max tuned into BBC 6 Music and heard a guy call in to say that he had just quit work because he couldn't be bothered any more.
Today is a time for burials. Arafat's body was buried in the usual chaos of Ramallah, and John Peel got the star treatment in Bury, St.Edmonds in Suffolk.
The US are still pounding Falluja. And a six year-old in Miami was shot by police with a sten gun because he had locked himself in his principal's room and was starting to cut himself with a shard of glass.
Liz has spent the afternoon optimising pictures of Jacob on PhotoShop to get some prints for her room.
Max sometimes thinks it is better to remain holed up in Siggiewi than face the outside world.
Today is a time for burials. Arafat's body was buried in the usual chaos of Ramallah, and John Peel got the star treatment in Bury, St.Edmonds in Suffolk.
The US are still pounding Falluja. And a six year-old in Miami was shot by police with a sten gun because he had locked himself in his principal's room and was starting to cut himself with a shard of glass.
Liz has spent the afternoon optimising pictures of Jacob on PhotoShop to get some prints for her room.
Max sometimes thinks it is better to remain holed up in Siggiewi than face the outside world.
Wednesday, November 10, 2004
Sleep Walking
The play is fading fast from the memory banks. The space it occupied is being replaced by a mesh of panic and rational thoughts about mid-life crises and being equipped for a rainy day.
The rainy day is here.
All around Max, Malta seems to be rushing to a job, a business deal or a hobby.
Max knows this is just a phase. He has no idea how long it will last, but he will come out of it. He always does.
Max escaped his office for a couple of hours in the morning, using the 'need to deposit a cheque' as an excuse to get away from the racket of breakfast and Jacob resisting porridge. Max bumped into his brother, the journalist. Herman's mobile kept on ringing. Herman is chasing a story about illegal migrants being used by Maltese building contractors as slave labour. Herman paid for the cappuccino.
Max is listening to a Radio 1 special on 'the worst songs ever'. Celine Dion has her rightful place in the hall of shame, together with Mr Blobby... Somehow, all the songs made it to Number 1 at some stage.
Max always knew that the world has no taste when it comes to recognising talent.
The rainy day is here.
All around Max, Malta seems to be rushing to a job, a business deal or a hobby.
Max knows this is just a phase. He has no idea how long it will last, but he will come out of it. He always does.
Max escaped his office for a couple of hours in the morning, using the 'need to deposit a cheque' as an excuse to get away from the racket of breakfast and Jacob resisting porridge. Max bumped into his brother, the journalist. Herman's mobile kept on ringing. Herman is chasing a story about illegal migrants being used by Maltese building contractors as slave labour. Herman paid for the cappuccino.
Max is listening to a Radio 1 special on 'the worst songs ever'. Celine Dion has her rightful place in the hall of shame, together with Mr Blobby... Somehow, all the songs made it to Number 1 at some stage.
Max always knew that the world has no taste when it comes to recognising talent.
Monday, November 08, 2004
Mondays
Mondays trigger all sorts of crises for Max.
This particular Monday, he has to turn his back on the escape offered by theatre, and go back to facing his old demons.
Where will the next piece of work come from? Will he need to relocate? Can he finish off the long-standing project or is he just too tired or bored to continue? Why does he always end up alone? Where does the money one pays on insurances actually go to? Why was he born on a Monday? Why does nothing last?
Max takes a deep breath, walks around his room and tries to think of an empty beach.
This particular Monday, he has to turn his back on the escape offered by theatre, and go back to facing his old demons.
Where will the next piece of work come from? Will he need to relocate? Can he finish off the long-standing project or is he just too tired or bored to continue? Why does he always end up alone? Where does the money one pays on insurances actually go to? Why was he born on a Monday? Why does nothing last?
Max takes a deep breath, walks around his room and tries to think of an empty beach.
Sunday, November 07, 2004
Closing Time
Max was woken up at 5am by Jacob asking for his train set.
By the time Max ventured to go downstairs at 8am, Max had worked his way through several dreams that involved Lars preparing to wear his white shirt for the last time.
The first crit of Dinner surfaced in the Sunday Times, and it was not great. Nobody escaped retribution, with the exception of Irene, whom Max thinks the 70 year-old critic actually fancies.
The critic said that many of Max's lines were lost because of a lack of projection.
Liz is having problems dealing with Jacob. This morning he has uprooted plants, spilled tea on Pickles the bear, followed her up a ladder as she was trying to trim an overgrown shrub, skidded, fallen, put raw black olives into his trouser pockets, blocked the exit to the house when Liz tried to go to the stationer.
Liz is going to watch Max do his thing on final night.
Max is going to belt it out tonight.
By the time Max ventured to go downstairs at 8am, Max had worked his way through several dreams that involved Lars preparing to wear his white shirt for the last time.
The first crit of Dinner surfaced in the Sunday Times, and it was not great. Nobody escaped retribution, with the exception of Irene, whom Max thinks the 70 year-old critic actually fancies.
The critic said that many of Max's lines were lost because of a lack of projection.
Liz is having problems dealing with Jacob. This morning he has uprooted plants, spilled tea on Pickles the bear, followed her up a ladder as she was trying to trim an overgrown shrub, skidded, fallen, put raw black olives into his trouser pockets, blocked the exit to the house when Liz tried to go to the stationer.
Liz is going to watch Max do his thing on final night.
Max is going to belt it out tonight.
Saturday, November 06, 2004
Method Acting
Yesterday, Dinner played to a full house.
Max thinks he did an OK job. Sure, there was that awful moment when he slipped on the fifth step as he came in to hand Page her divorce papers. Or the split second where he got the wrong line when Page was waiting to knee him in the balls. Or the minute up to curtain call when he almost dried up.
But Max is coping. He is holding his own. He will hold his own for two more nights.
In the aftermath of the play, at the Castille Vaults, Max found himself speaking to a chap called Jeffrey, a dentist by day and an MP by night. Max found it hard not to be rude about Government, politics, partisanship, the proposed replacement of the Opera House by a new Parliament building, public tendering processes, Malta centre of the fucking Mediterranean.
Today, Max did what he normally does on Saturdays. He played trains with Jacob. He took Jacob to Saracino for a muffin and cappuccino. He took Jacob to San Anton to look at the caged peacock and throw scorn on a system that still thinks it is acceptable to keep beautiful animals in cages.
Max got home and found out that the Inland Revenue is demanding more money from him for a 'late payment of provisional tax'.
Max wonders what kind of human being becomes a Tax Inspector.
Max is trying not to think of what lies beyond Dinner.
Max thinks he did an OK job. Sure, there was that awful moment when he slipped on the fifth step as he came in to hand Page her divorce papers. Or the split second where he got the wrong line when Page was waiting to knee him in the balls. Or the minute up to curtain call when he almost dried up.
But Max is coping. He is holding his own. He will hold his own for two more nights.
In the aftermath of the play, at the Castille Vaults, Max found himself speaking to a chap called Jeffrey, a dentist by day and an MP by night. Max found it hard not to be rude about Government, politics, partisanship, the proposed replacement of the Opera House by a new Parliament building, public tendering processes, Malta centre of the fucking Mediterranean.
Today, Max did what he normally does on Saturdays. He played trains with Jacob. He took Jacob to Saracino for a muffin and cappuccino. He took Jacob to San Anton to look at the caged peacock and throw scorn on a system that still thinks it is acceptable to keep beautiful animals in cages.
Max got home and found out that the Inland Revenue is demanding more money from him for a 'late payment of provisional tax'.
Max wonders what kind of human being becomes a Tax Inspector.
Max is trying not to think of what lies beyond Dinner.
Thursday, November 04, 2004
Where to avoid the effect of Bush on you and your loved ones
Now that George Bush is back for four more years.
Now that Iraq will continue to be raped and pillaged for oil and guns and anything goes for a piece of media attention
Now that NYC people feel more disenfranchised than ever, when nobody in NYC claims to know anyone who voted for GWB
Now that Michael Moore has to find something else to harp about for the next four years
Now that America seems to feel more safe or smug or beseiged or that terrorists have been banished to the other, outside world, on different time zones outside the border of the homeland
Max thinks that now is the time for Malta to make its claim as the centre of the world, the blog spot in the centre of the Mediterranean sea in the centre of Planet Earth, small, rudderless, non-threatening, ancient, pot-holed, sentient, rotten, dry, flooded, cored.
Max's PC hard disk has died, Jacob is away at a party, Liz is wearing hipsters, the storms have abated for a night, Soma FM is mulling in the background, Arafat is in a coma, Mutu is waiting for a ban for smoking cocaine to enhance his sex life, MPs are debating whether to turn the formal Opera House into the new house for MPs, at the taxpayer's expense.
Max is preparing for the final weekend for Dinner.
Max is not scared any more.
Now that Iraq will continue to be raped and pillaged for oil and guns and anything goes for a piece of media attention
Now that NYC people feel more disenfranchised than ever, when nobody in NYC claims to know anyone who voted for GWB
Now that Michael Moore has to find something else to harp about for the next four years
Now that America seems to feel more safe or smug or beseiged or that terrorists have been banished to the other, outside world, on different time zones outside the border of the homeland
Max thinks that now is the time for Malta to make its claim as the centre of the world, the blog spot in the centre of the Mediterranean sea in the centre of Planet Earth, small, rudderless, non-threatening, ancient, pot-holed, sentient, rotten, dry, flooded, cored.
Max's PC hard disk has died, Jacob is away at a party, Liz is wearing hipsters, the storms have abated for a night, Soma FM is mulling in the background, Arafat is in a coma, Mutu is waiting for a ban for smoking cocaine to enhance his sex life, MPs are debating whether to turn the formal Opera House into the new house for MPs, at the taxpayer's expense.
Max is preparing for the final weekend for Dinner.
Max is not scared any more.
Wednesday, November 03, 2004
Leaks
This is a country of extremes. It's either a neurosis of heat, or languishing under the flood gates.
The rains came last night at 10.30, just as a beseiged AC Milan caved in to a Ronaldinho piece of wizardry and lost 2-1 to Barcelona. Max then had to drive Frank back to his house in the Three Cities, say goodbye (Frank was leaving for Germany) and commence his journey back to Siggiewi. By the time he got to Qormi, the wheels of Polo were finding difficulty in remaining glued to the ground. Visibility was down to a couple of feet. What remained of the road was a grey river of slime and loose stones. The headlights of the car ahead vanished and reappeared like a limp Christmas tree.
By the time Max got home, his hands were shaking.
Max has spent the morning looking at leaks and restarting his computer. Jacob's potty is an emergency receptacle for a leak in the bathroom. Jacob has retreated to Max's study to watch Thomas the Tank Engine for the 400th time.
Max has just found out that George W. Bush will be the US president for the next 4 years.
Max thinks that the whole world appears to have sprung a leak
The rains came last night at 10.30, just as a beseiged AC Milan caved in to a Ronaldinho piece of wizardry and lost 2-1 to Barcelona. Max then had to drive Frank back to his house in the Three Cities, say goodbye (Frank was leaving for Germany) and commence his journey back to Siggiewi. By the time he got to Qormi, the wheels of Polo were finding difficulty in remaining glued to the ground. Visibility was down to a couple of feet. What remained of the road was a grey river of slime and loose stones. The headlights of the car ahead vanished and reappeared like a limp Christmas tree.
By the time Max got home, his hands were shaking.
Max has spent the morning looking at leaks and restarting his computer. Jacob's potty is an emergency receptacle for a leak in the bathroom. Jacob has retreated to Max's study to watch Thomas the Tank Engine for the 400th time.
Max has just found out that George W. Bush will be the US president for the next 4 years.
Max thinks that the whole world appears to have sprung a leak
Saturday, October 30, 2004
Opening night
Dinner opened tonight. The house was nearly full. Max was surprised. He thought nobody would come to the opening night.
Max thought he was prepared, He arrived at the theatre in good time. He got his make up applied, sucked Fishermen's Friends, went through a line and cue, thought of how the last time he had performed at MITP, his mother was still alive and his father had refused to come and watch him play Malvolio.
Three minutes into the play, Max was in trouble. His heart missed a beat, then two, then it started to beat into his ears like a Burundi drum. Max could not hear what was being said. His shirt soaked within seconds. Sweat came down his forehead and stung his eyes. White light sparked the back of his retina. Max blinked, soldiered on, walked through his lines, trying to think of what's next, the next line, the next cue, the next second of respite. An hour and thirty minutes into the play, Max lost the plot totally and was left holding a tea bag and looking at Page. His mind was a blank sheet of text, and he squinted to make out a word or two. Then he spluttered back into life and clung on till the end. When the curtain call came, Max tried to avoid looking at the audience. There was rapturous applause.
Max apologised to his fellow actors and tried to tell them about his near death experience.
Frank, the director, asked him whether he was always miserable about everything.
Max tried to tell Frank that this was not depression, this was not a prima donna hypochondriac attack, this was a fucking near heart attack on stage.
Max found it difficult to talk to anyone after that.
He left the party early and drove home through a night of dew and dangerous roads.
Max wonders if he is really a miserable git, or whether he is going to die soon.
Max thought he was prepared, He arrived at the theatre in good time. He got his make up applied, sucked Fishermen's Friends, went through a line and cue, thought of how the last time he had performed at MITP, his mother was still alive and his father had refused to come and watch him play Malvolio.
Three minutes into the play, Max was in trouble. His heart missed a beat, then two, then it started to beat into his ears like a Burundi drum. Max could not hear what was being said. His shirt soaked within seconds. Sweat came down his forehead and stung his eyes. White light sparked the back of his retina. Max blinked, soldiered on, walked through his lines, trying to think of what's next, the next line, the next cue, the next second of respite. An hour and thirty minutes into the play, Max lost the plot totally and was left holding a tea bag and looking at Page. His mind was a blank sheet of text, and he squinted to make out a word or two. Then he spluttered back into life and clung on till the end. When the curtain call came, Max tried to avoid looking at the audience. There was rapturous applause.
Max apologised to his fellow actors and tried to tell them about his near death experience.
Frank, the director, asked him whether he was always miserable about everything.
Max tried to tell Frank that this was not depression, this was not a prima donna hypochondriac attack, this was a fucking near heart attack on stage.
Max found it difficult to talk to anyone after that.
He left the party early and drove home through a night of dew and dangerous roads.
Max wonders if he is really a miserable git, or whether he is going to die soon.
Thursday, October 28, 2004
Rage
Max doesn't think it is fair that people like John Peel die and scum stay alive, get fat, drive company cars, lie, screw other people's lives, go to cocktail parties and die silently in their sleep.
Max had an early morning phone call with a 60 year-old woman who wants him to cut the pepper tree because it is encroaching on her garden wall and 'damaging her property'.
Max asked if he could get access to the woman's garden so he can seal his office wall, which has sprung a leak.
The woman said it was Max's problem, he should have fixed it in summer, now that the rains had come, he could wait until next summer.
Max was about to ignite and then remembered that this was a woman who lost a 20 year-old daughter to a car crash 20 years ago and never recovered. Max put the phone down.
Max is spending his morning listening to noisy BBC tributes to John Peel.
Max wonders what he would do if something happened to Liz or Jacob.
Max yesterday fluffed his lines, sweated in a suit and wanted to be alone on a beach that was not called Malta.
Max has to do something fast. Time is running out for escapes.
Max had an early morning phone call with a 60 year-old woman who wants him to cut the pepper tree because it is encroaching on her garden wall and 'damaging her property'.
Max asked if he could get access to the woman's garden so he can seal his office wall, which has sprung a leak.
The woman said it was Max's problem, he should have fixed it in summer, now that the rains had come, he could wait until next summer.
Max was about to ignite and then remembered that this was a woman who lost a 20 year-old daughter to a car crash 20 years ago and never recovered. Max put the phone down.
Max is spending his morning listening to noisy BBC tributes to John Peel.
Max wonders what he would do if something happened to Liz or Jacob.
Max yesterday fluffed his lines, sweated in a suit and wanted to be alone on a beach that was not called Malta.
Max has to do something fast. Time is running out for escapes.
Wednesday, October 27, 2004
Storms
At last, the weather has broken. The seasonal bouquet of thunder and lightning has shown up and the island rattles, floods and leaks, like it always does in Winter.
Max thinks of the crack in his office wall, and knows he should have done something about it.
Max is still reeling about the death of John Peel, like several other millions who can still hear the gravel voice in their heads. How strange, Max thinks, that the voice never really quite ages, especially a voice on the radio.
Life for Max right now is a groundhog day of lines, lights, sweat, laughter, anxiety, introspection, narcissism, revenge. And it's only a play, says the inner voice.
Somehow, miraculously, the play is coming together. Some lines are still shaky, but the silent metamorphosis from words to theatre is starting to happen.
Max knows he will not be doing any more theatre, for a very long time.
He does not know if that is a good or bad thing.
Max is trying to live for the moment.
Max thinks of the crack in his office wall, and knows he should have done something about it.
Max is still reeling about the death of John Peel, like several other millions who can still hear the gravel voice in their heads. How strange, Max thinks, that the voice never really quite ages, especially a voice on the radio.
Life for Max right now is a groundhog day of lines, lights, sweat, laughter, anxiety, introspection, narcissism, revenge. And it's only a play, says the inner voice.
Somehow, miraculously, the play is coming together. Some lines are still shaky, but the silent metamorphosis from words to theatre is starting to happen.
Max knows he will not be doing any more theatre, for a very long time.
He does not know if that is a good or bad thing.
Max is trying to live for the moment.
Tuesday, October 26, 2004
Time is running out
In 72 hours, Max and the rest of the cast have to deliver Dinner to a paying audience.
Yesterday's run through was a sorry affair. Cues were missed, lines were fluffed, entries missed, egos squashed. Frank Hoerner smoked a cigarette in the courtyard at 11.15 pm and was silent for the first time in six weeks.
Max could follow his pacing in the dark by the burning tip of the cigarette.
At the end, the cast agreed it had to go for broke and rehearse every available time of day.
Max is grateful that he does not have to act for a living.
Max is not sure he knows what he is going to do for a living.
Max is not sure what he is going to do after Dinner.
Max is not having a good day.
Yesterday's run through was a sorry affair. Cues were missed, lines were fluffed, entries missed, egos squashed. Frank Hoerner smoked a cigarette in the courtyard at 11.15 pm and was silent for the first time in six weeks.
Max could follow his pacing in the dark by the burning tip of the cigarette.
At the end, the cast agreed it had to go for broke and rehearse every available time of day.
Max is grateful that he does not have to act for a living.
Max is not sure he knows what he is going to do for a living.
Max is not sure what he is going to do after Dinner.
Max is not having a good day.
Saturday, October 23, 2004
Nightmares
A couple of nights ago, Max got back late from a rehearsal. He ate his pasta with broccoli and anchovies in front of the Internet. Margaret Hassan from Care International was the latest kidnap victim in Iraq.
Max went to bed and was asleep in seconds.
Max dreamt Jacob had been taken hostage in Iraq. He spent the entire night looking for his son. All around him, a war ranged on.
Max woke up convinced he had just found Jacob.
Liz told him not to eat pasta at such a late hour.
Max went to bed and was asleep in seconds.
Max dreamt Jacob had been taken hostage in Iraq. He spent the entire night looking for his son. All around him, a war ranged on.
Max woke up convinced he had just found Jacob.
Liz told him not to eat pasta at such a late hour.
Sunday, October 17, 2004
Music
Max is a great music buff.
His taste in music ranges from Gilles Peterson and the future of dance to the Cure and the Smashing Pumpkins and Kylie's bottom antics to David Bowie crooning in an obscure Brecht play called 'Baal'.
Max was there at Freddie Mercury's last concert at Knebworth, the Who's 25th Anniverary tours, Peter Gabriel's soaring concerts at Earls Court and Frank Zappa's last tour of Wembley.
Max would have loved to have spent his twenties with a guitar strapped to his chest and a flock of pubescent Motley Crue female fans waiting in the wings. Or as a U2 roadie (except his bad back would have precluded any serious lifting). Or as a member of the Brodski Quartet.
Max spent his twenties working as a Chartered Accountant in middle-management in the UK.
Max is teaching Jacob how to sing. He has managed to get through the first stanza of 'Octopussy's Garden'.
Max is wondering if it is not too late to go to guitar lessons.
Jacob asks for Piazzola tangos when he is playing with his train set.
Max is hoping that he will not succumb Jacob to unreasonable peer pressure.
His taste in music ranges from Gilles Peterson and the future of dance to the Cure and the Smashing Pumpkins and Kylie's bottom antics to David Bowie crooning in an obscure Brecht play called 'Baal'.
Max was there at Freddie Mercury's last concert at Knebworth, the Who's 25th Anniverary tours, Peter Gabriel's soaring concerts at Earls Court and Frank Zappa's last tour of Wembley.
Max would have loved to have spent his twenties with a guitar strapped to his chest and a flock of pubescent Motley Crue female fans waiting in the wings. Or as a U2 roadie (except his bad back would have precluded any serious lifting). Or as a member of the Brodski Quartet.
Max spent his twenties working as a Chartered Accountant in middle-management in the UK.
Max is teaching Jacob how to sing. He has managed to get through the first stanza of 'Octopussy's Garden'.
Max is wondering if it is not too late to go to guitar lessons.
Jacob asks for Piazzola tangos when he is playing with his train set.
Max is hoping that he will not succumb Jacob to unreasonable peer pressure.
Friday, October 15, 2004
Panic
There are 14 days left until Dinner's opening night.
The play has yet to be blocked. Max is still struggling with his lines. His dog-eared script surfaces during tea-breaks and breakfast. Jacob has started to despair, and has taken to saying 'Waiter! Take it away!' every time he sees his father running his fingers over highlighted text.
And now the weekend rehearsals have to be transplanted elsewhere as the theatre has been taken over by two simultaneous performances: an intense play featuring barefoot people chatting around a candle; and a 'dance extravanganza' replete with smiling people with bongo drums and jangly bracelets.
Max is wondering if he is rapidly approaching another milestone of humiliation.
At least the Censorship Board woman has backed off from the threat of a war of words in the press.
Max secretly regrets not going to war.
The play has yet to be blocked. Max is still struggling with his lines. His dog-eared script surfaces during tea-breaks and breakfast. Jacob has started to despair, and has taken to saying 'Waiter! Take it away!' every time he sees his father running his fingers over highlighted text.
And now the weekend rehearsals have to be transplanted elsewhere as the theatre has been taken over by two simultaneous performances: an intense play featuring barefoot people chatting around a candle; and a 'dance extravanganza' replete with smiling people with bongo drums and jangly bracelets.
Max is wondering if he is rapidly approaching another milestone of humiliation.
At least the Censorship Board woman has backed off from the threat of a war of words in the press.
Max secretly regrets not going to war.
Tuesday, October 12, 2004
Electricity
At 08.13am, the electricity cuts out.
The living room is plunged into darkness.
TV switches itself off.
The Pavoni cappuccino machine splutters and steams up.
The toaster hiccups and ejects half toasted toast.
The computer UPS kicks in with a mournful bleep bleep.
Jacob starts to cry.
Jacob wants the TV back, the lights back on.
Liz asks Max if he thinks Enemalta will compensate small businesses for power outages within her lifetime.
Max wonders if he will have to spend the day walking by the Sliema front, next to the sea, away from his silent monitor.
The living room is plunged into darkness.
TV switches itself off.
The Pavoni cappuccino machine splutters and steams up.
The toaster hiccups and ejects half toasted toast.
The computer UPS kicks in with a mournful bleep bleep.
Jacob starts to cry.
Jacob wants the TV back, the lights back on.
Liz asks Max if he thinks Enemalta will compensate small businesses for power outages within her lifetime.
Max wonders if he will have to spend the day walking by the Sliema front, next to the sea, away from his silent monitor.
Monday, October 11, 2004
Death of Superman
Internet news frenzy. Every other picture has a man in tights and a cape. The first visual on the BBC site showing a bald Christopher Reeve in a wheelchair is rapidly replaced by a more dignified picture of the great man with a full head of hair and a suit.
Max spends the day running errands to keep him from thinking about beheadings in Iraq, girls shot in drive-by killings in Nottingham, and all the shit in the world.
Jacob says that he likes having chicken pox. He watches fourteen consecutive episodes of Thomas the tank engine before Max realises that a responsible father would find alternative entertainment for his toddler.
Max is starting to think that his own real life character bears many similarities to Lars.
Max gets home to a plate of pasta with M&S vegetable sauce.
Max doesn't know what he has become.
Max spends the day running errands to keep him from thinking about beheadings in Iraq, girls shot in drive-by killings in Nottingham, and all the shit in the world.
Jacob says that he likes having chicken pox. He watches fourteen consecutive episodes of Thomas the tank engine before Max realises that a responsible father would find alternative entertainment for his toddler.
Max is starting to think that his own real life character bears many similarities to Lars.
Max gets home to a plate of pasta with M&S vegetable sauce.
Max doesn't know what he has become.
Friday, October 08, 2004
Thursday, October 07, 2004
Spots
Jacob has chicken pox.
Liz texted me while I was at rehearsals, in the middle of a heated discussion on censorship. A militant member of the Malta Censorship Board has taken umbridge to 'derogatory references to Jesus Christ in the play Dinner' and has ordered Irene, the producer, to make cuts. Frank, the German director, thinks it is a big joke and said that although cuts would be made, they would not be the ones referring to Jesus.
My communications & PR brain is spinning on how to leak the censorship threat to the press and drum up some interest in the play.
I drive back home on two wheels, dwelling on chicken pox and the responsibilities of fatherhood.
I will call my father tomorrow to establish if I have contracted chicken pox before.
Liz texted me while I was at rehearsals, in the middle of a heated discussion on censorship. A militant member of the Malta Censorship Board has taken umbridge to 'derogatory references to Jesus Christ in the play Dinner' and has ordered Irene, the producer, to make cuts. Frank, the German director, thinks it is a big joke and said that although cuts would be made, they would not be the ones referring to Jesus.
My communications & PR brain is spinning on how to leak the censorship threat to the press and drum up some interest in the play.
I drive back home on two wheels, dwelling on chicken pox and the responsibilities of fatherhood.
I will call my father tomorrow to establish if I have contracted chicken pox before.
Sunday, October 03, 2004
Bells
Nothing winds up Liz as much as bells on Sundays.
We live in the shadow of a baroque church in the village of Siggiewi. It is a splendid piece of architecture. On summer nights, the floodlit dome nestles above the furthermost corner of the garden, framed by the olive tree and the conifers. In June during the feast of St Nicholas, it is a candy box of yellow and orange. The church is the apex of the village, the reason for traffic jams on evenings and Sunday, the conch for all Christians.
And that is where the problem lies. Liz believes that Catholicism has turned the Maltese into an insular race that only cares for its own small circle, rather than the greater whole. It is why housewives throw buckets of water in front of their doorstep, knowing full well that this will only wash the rubbish down to their neighbours' doorsteps. Why what's left of valleys and beauty spots are full of discarded fridges and other white goods. Or grown men go and shoot on migrating birds. Liz has never been to the church of St Nicholas, although it is literally on her door-step.
On Sundays, the anti-Catholic sentiment explodes with the activities in the bell-fry. Today's 24 x 7 session was managed by an energetic roster that kicked in at 5am and never quite let go. All the way up to Jacob's bed time, the bells hammered their voice into our head.
Liz called Joyce and asked if there was any reason for the cacophony. Joyce said that it was the feast of Our Lady of the Rosary.
Liz delivered a monologue about Our Lady's various personality disorders, such that every other weekend she was reincarnated in some particular aspect - my favourite is Our Lady of Sorrows.
Today was Liz's 41st birthday.
Liz would like the bells to go away.
We live in the shadow of a baroque church in the village of Siggiewi. It is a splendid piece of architecture. On summer nights, the floodlit dome nestles above the furthermost corner of the garden, framed by the olive tree and the conifers. In June during the feast of St Nicholas, it is a candy box of yellow and orange. The church is the apex of the village, the reason for traffic jams on evenings and Sunday, the conch for all Christians.
And that is where the problem lies. Liz believes that Catholicism has turned the Maltese into an insular race that only cares for its own small circle, rather than the greater whole. It is why housewives throw buckets of water in front of their doorstep, knowing full well that this will only wash the rubbish down to their neighbours' doorsteps. Why what's left of valleys and beauty spots are full of discarded fridges and other white goods. Or grown men go and shoot on migrating birds. Liz has never been to the church of St Nicholas, although it is literally on her door-step.
On Sundays, the anti-Catholic sentiment explodes with the activities in the bell-fry. Today's 24 x 7 session was managed by an energetic roster that kicked in at 5am and never quite let go. All the way up to Jacob's bed time, the bells hammered their voice into our head.
Liz called Joyce and asked if there was any reason for the cacophony. Joyce said that it was the feast of Our Lady of the Rosary.
Liz delivered a monologue about Our Lady's various personality disorders, such that every other weekend she was reincarnated in some particular aspect - my favourite is Our Lady of Sorrows.
Today was Liz's 41st birthday.
Liz would like the bells to go away.
Thursday, September 30, 2004
Dinner
I have been roped into a play called Dinner.
Earlier in September, I escaped my desk for a morning at the Reef Club, a private beach for bored housewives and sunburnt tourists. I spent the morning fiddling with a faulty sun-lounger and reading a book on Neuro Linguistic Programming.
When my mobile rang, I did not recognise the number, and thought twice about answering. I took the call on the third ring. It was Irene, an actress from Berlin, washed up in Malta, looking for someone just like me. "But you don't even know me," I grinned. When I put the phone down, I was sure it was one of those life-changing moments.
I am now spending my evenings learning how to play Lars in a run down theatre in Valletta called MITP. Lars is a former City slick with a receding hairline who has made a lot of money from a self-help philosophy book called 'Beyond Belief'. Beyond Belief is outselling Delia Smith at Menzies and has caught the zeitgeist of people with the need to look away from their lives.
I am struggling to learn my lines.
I'm not sure what MITP stands for.
I have to eat ready-made meals I get back home from rehearsals in the evening.
I'm not not sure I like Lars.
Earlier in September, I escaped my desk for a morning at the Reef Club, a private beach for bored housewives and sunburnt tourists. I spent the morning fiddling with a faulty sun-lounger and reading a book on Neuro Linguistic Programming.
When my mobile rang, I did not recognise the number, and thought twice about answering. I took the call on the third ring. It was Irene, an actress from Berlin, washed up in Malta, looking for someone just like me. "But you don't even know me," I grinned. When I put the phone down, I was sure it was one of those life-changing moments.
I am now spending my evenings learning how to play Lars in a run down theatre in Valletta called MITP. Lars is a former City slick with a receding hairline who has made a lot of money from a self-help philosophy book called 'Beyond Belief'. Beyond Belief is outselling Delia Smith at Menzies and has caught the zeitgeist of people with the need to look away from their lives.
I am struggling to learn my lines.
I'm not sure what MITP stands for.
I have to eat ready-made meals I get back home from rehearsals in the evening.
I'm not not sure I like Lars.
Sunday, September 26, 2004
Sundays are for AC Milan
Liz thinks I should start to eliminate anything which stresses me out. She thinks I should start by turning my back on AC Milan.
AC Milan is my first love. It started when I was 5, when my father took me out on a carcade in the Fiat 600 and I could scream without being told to shut up. Since then, I have screamed in front of black and white TV sets, in friends' living rooms, all the way to the Philips digital wide-screen. If I were brave enough to tattoo my arm, I would have a red and black devil.
Two weeks ago, I had to lie down after a near miss by Filippo Inzaghi. It would be a strange way to die, because of some millionaire footballer's miss, I thought, as I counted the beams in his room.
Simply for the record. Tonight, AC Milan were down 1-0 to Lazio at half time and down to 10 men by the 50th minute. Then Shevchenko scored two impossible goals, Lazio hit the post, and Milan won the match.
Perhaps I should get my heart checked.
AC Milan is my first love. It started when I was 5, when my father took me out on a carcade in the Fiat 600 and I could scream without being told to shut up. Since then, I have screamed in front of black and white TV sets, in friends' living rooms, all the way to the Philips digital wide-screen. If I were brave enough to tattoo my arm, I would have a red and black devil.
Two weeks ago, I had to lie down after a near miss by Filippo Inzaghi. It would be a strange way to die, because of some millionaire footballer's miss, I thought, as I counted the beams in his room.
Simply for the record. Tonight, AC Milan were down 1-0 to Lazio at half time and down to 10 men by the 50th minute. Then Shevchenko scored two impossible goals, Lazio hit the post, and Milan won the match.
Perhaps I should get my heart checked.
Saturday, September 25, 2004
Saturday is for St James
Saturday mornings are for Liz alone. She gets to have a cappuccino without having to share the foam.
On Saturday mornings, I get to talk to Jacob about the bombing of the Valletta Opera House. I wait next to the Thomas the Tank Engine 10c ride. I get to lecture on potty training. I take Jacob into the church of St Francis. Everything has turned electric, even the red candles have little lamps in them now. Jacob counts the number of electric fans taking out the sleepy flies. It is September but still 26 degrees outside.
So to the exhibition of Malta photography at St James Cavalier. Almost makes me proud of the wretched, old island.
Jacob gets tangled in the wires holding a perspex collage. Jacob wants to look at the sea. I turn my back to the bus terminus and points in the general direction of St. Elmo. Jacob is not easily fooled. He wants the real thing, sea salt and spray.
By the time I get back to the 1998 metalic blue VW Polo Classic, I want a new back.
Instead, I drive back home, deposit the sleeping Jacob with Liz and write this blog.
On Saturday mornings, I get to talk to Jacob about the bombing of the Valletta Opera House. I wait next to the Thomas the Tank Engine 10c ride. I get to lecture on potty training. I take Jacob into the church of St Francis. Everything has turned electric, even the red candles have little lamps in them now. Jacob counts the number of electric fans taking out the sleepy flies. It is September but still 26 degrees outside.
So to the exhibition of Malta photography at St James Cavalier. Almost makes me proud of the wretched, old island.
Jacob gets tangled in the wires holding a perspex collage. Jacob wants to look at the sea. I turn my back to the bus terminus and points in the general direction of St. Elmo. Jacob is not easily fooled. He wants the real thing, sea salt and spray.
By the time I get back to the 1998 metalic blue VW Polo Classic, I want a new back.
Instead, I drive back home, deposit the sleeping Jacob with Liz and write this blog.
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