For some time, Max has been thinking of bowing out of this blog.
Max does not lead an interesting life. He lives on a small island. He has a small life. He has long ceased to be a member of an Air Miles Club.
And yet, on another level, there's plenty afoot.
For a start, a journey home now takes twice as long as all the roads leading to Siggiewi are dug up. The main access is now via what's best described as a goat track through what's left of an old valley. By the time Max gets home, he feels like lying down or getting a prize.
Max has also joined the iPod millions. No surprise that Max now takes his iPod to bed, and on the Saturday visits to the swings with Jacob. On most days, Max can be seen trying to untangle himself from the coil of his headphones.
Then, there was something that Julian told Max. He said that he had found it very difficult to figure out his father. Julian figures that Max is writing a blog to make Jacob understand his father.
And Max has been coerced into another play. More about that, on some other day.
This afternoon, a comment from somebody called Chris urged Max to remove one of his postings. It warned Max that he was making enemies by making snide remarks on politicians, corporates and those who hide behind them.
Max looked at his screen, sipped his camomille tea, then, almost without thinking, pressed the delete button on the post, and watched it vapourise into cyberspace.
Max was suddenly overwhelmed by a sense of remorse.
Max remembers that when he was a child, he used to think that the cult TV series The Prisoner was shot in Malta. He used to go to bed with pictures of the large, inflatable white baloon chasing him to his bedroom.
In the late seventies and eighties, the baloon in Malta took shape, and the island wa s overcome by a spate of dictatorship, violence, teargas and fear. Max did what a many of his generation did - he sold his bike, bought a plane ticket, and lost himself in a large metropolis. London offered him anonymity, space, and a chance to start again. Max found his voice, got himself a career, travelled the world and made some money and real friendships.
It was only the grey that made him return to the island, ten years later. That, and the desire to own a house, with a courtyard and a cat, and to look at the waves. And some new-found sense of optimism, that the rock had changed its spots, that the place had somehow mellowed and grown up.
In 2005, there is much to point that Max had made yet another mistake.
But Max is grateful to Mr Chris. He has made him remember that there is a blog to write. And that the power of the Internet was never in the hands of the corporates, or the politicians, or those who serve them, and climb up the greasy career pole by selling their soul. Or those who continue to serve the system, silently, in fear, or in cocktail parties, because this is a small place and everybody knows everybody's business.
The fact that this blog is being written on Malta's Republic Day makes Max cackle.
Max may have deleted the post, but not the evidence.
Because Max never lies.
Thursday, March 31, 2005
Tuesday, February 15, 2005
Saturday, January 08, 2005
Body bags
The New Year is a body count.
The New Year is rows of white bags and tags, heaps of dog eared passports with fading colour pictures, orphaned children, eyeless parents, piles of rubbish and jagged tree trunks.
The New Year is investigative journalism at its worst, the living prying after the dead, trying to find some moral meaning out of the tragedy.
In the aftermath of the carnage, I have retreated to my head space. In the absence of any clarity or notion of where to head towards, in the future, away from the island, I am waiting to go to Cornwall later in the month, with Jacob and Liz. Somehow I am hoping that a couple of days holed up in a Landmark Trust cottage can help him step out of the moment he is stuck in, and find a way of moving on.
Right now, I cannot get away from the futility of the day to day, when millions of lives have been destroyed with what happened the day after Christmas.
I have no right to speak of my life, right now.
The New Year is rows of white bags and tags, heaps of dog eared passports with fading colour pictures, orphaned children, eyeless parents, piles of rubbish and jagged tree trunks.
The New Year is investigative journalism at its worst, the living prying after the dead, trying to find some moral meaning out of the tragedy.
In the aftermath of the carnage, I have retreated to my head space. In the absence of any clarity or notion of where to head towards, in the future, away from the island, I am waiting to go to Cornwall later in the month, with Jacob and Liz. Somehow I am hoping that a couple of days holed up in a Landmark Trust cottage can help him step out of the moment he is stuck in, and find a way of moving on.
Right now, I cannot get away from the futility of the day to day, when millions of lives have been destroyed with what happened the day after Christmas.
I have no right to speak of my life, right now.
Friday, December 31, 2004
On the verge of the New Year
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.
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.
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.
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