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.