The Stuck Drawer

Getting ready for work this morning, I left the underwear drawer open a crack while I was pottering about. I was in and out of the bathroom, dressing, applying make-up, as one does. Finally, I decided I had taken everything I needed out of it. I shoved it shut: only it would not shut.

This is an old chest of drawers; the drawers do, sometimes, stick. I gave it another shove, hard this time. Still, it would not shut. I opened it further and reached in, but could find no obstruction. I tried again. This happened two or three times. Finally, I tried to open the drawer underneath, to see if there was something there. It was as I was struggling with the second drawer that I saw the underwear move. Disbelieving, I watched as Molly Cat disentangled herself from the contents of the drawer and slid out. The expression on her face can only be described as withering. I apologised profusely, between laughs, but she was not the least bit pacified. She stalked away and did not return for at least twenty minutes. 

I shall be more careful with that drawer in future.

Molly Cat Comes Home

Yesterday morning, I picked up Molly Cat from the Cattery. To be honest, I had been in text touch with the Cattery owner at least four times during my week in Malta to ensure that Molly was fine. I was assured that she had settled in well, was enjoying her cuddles, and following 'Aunty Linda' around at every opportunity. To say I was jealous would be over-stating the case, but I was bemused - she never did that with me. However, I was also relieved that she seemed happy and wasn't pining.

I arrived to pick her up at about 11 on a lovely sunny morning. Obviously, I had brought the sunshine with me, since the weather had been reportedly atrocious. Linda assured me that Molly had been happy, that she loved being cuddled, that she liked her treats. She sounded like a different cat. When we went to fetch her, she looked less than thrilled to see me. However, we got her into the carrier and I set off for home.

In the past, Molly had lain quietly in the carrier, almost asleep. Not this time. She was cross. She moaned and yowled. She made the same noise at me that she normally reserves for the pigeons on the terrace. She got more and more distressed. I almost turned the car around. Suddenly, I remembered that she liked music. I turned from Radio 4 to Radio 3 and she calmed down almost instantly. I heaved a sigh of relief.

Arriving home, she set off to explore again, as if re-discovering the place. Mindful of what Linda had said, I decided that I would give her the opportunity to come and be cuddled so, as I was sorting out my suitcase, I sat on the bed. Fairly soon she joined me. She did, indeed, enjoy a long cuddle. 'Right', I thought, 'it's the opportunity that she's been missing; less computer and more reading on the bed or the recliner'. So later, once the chores were completed, I took my book and settled on the recliner on 'Molly's' terrace. To my complete amazement, she soon joined me, sitting half between my legs and half on my stomach, only complaining when I stopped patting her with my free hand in order to turn a page. My new cat is a total delight. I suspect I may be doing more reading and less computer work in the forthcoming weeks.

The Journey From Hell

Yesterday, as I have already said, I flew back from Malta. It was meant to be a smooth journey. I had it all planned: flight landing at Heathrow at 7p.m., tube at 8 (enough time for disembarkation, customs and baggage reclaim) to St Pancras, arrive soon after 9, with plenty of time to catch the 10p.m. train. I had a cushion of about an hour. What could go wrong?

At Malta Airport ( a lovely, calming airport) I settled down with a book. It is rather a good book (an Elizabeth George thriller - and, no, she doesn't know I'm saying this) and I was engrossed. It was a good half hour after I had settled in the departure area that it occurred to me that we might be late. Sure enough, we were delayed. Eventually we boarded, but we were 30 minutes late leaving. We lost an additional 10 minutes in flight.

We landed. I was consulting my watch and telling myself that, provided everything went smoothly form here, all would be well. FAT CHANCE. We taxied towards the terminal, then came to a halt. An apologetic pilot explained that the outgoing planes were delayed and we would have to wait for our stand. We waited. For rather a long time. By the time we disembarked, we were almost two hours late.

I cleared immigration (no queues to speak of) and rushed for my bag. Which didn't come. It was the last bag on to the carousel. 'How can this be?' I asked myself, in disbelief, as I struggled the bag on to the trolley. I had almost given up, but there was still the Heathrow Express. By this time, it was 9p.m. I had an hour.

I made the train. Just. I collapsed into a seat. An announcement came over the tannoy: "We regret we have signalling problems and will be slightly delayed".

At this point, I gave up. I stopped rushing, just walked fast. At Paddington, I grabbed a cab: "Can you get me to St Pancras in ten minutes?". He pulled a face: "I can try."

We arrived at St Pancras at 9.41p.m. I had 11 minutes. I have never given such a big tip - I wasn't waiting for change. I got to the ticket machine at 9.50. I made the train with three minutes to spare.

REMIND ME NEVER TO DO THIS AGAIN.

Today, I say goodbye to Malta for the present

I am sad. I do not wish to return to England, with the rain, and the cold, and destruction of the NHS, and the lack of coherent policy. Of course, a holiday is a very different thing from living here, and the politics here care also Ian major muddle. But, somehow, when you can get into the sea and cswim away your worries, letting the water carry you and gentle you back into a good mood, it seems to matter less. I have had a very lazy week. I have swum, and sunbathed, and ad my books, and caught up with friends. I have eaten delicious fish and drunk rather too much white wine. And now I must return. I must pick up threads, return to the fight, do my best to prevent the destruction of the NHS. I have felt rejuvenated - until about a minute ago, when the concierge told me my taxi is here. Suddenly, I don't want to go at all. I want to tell the man to go away, fishy swimsuit out of my packed suitcase and head back to the sea. Of course, I shall do nothing of the kind. I shall smile, thank everybody, head off. But I have not felt this bad for many years. Perhaps the time has come to stop pretending and to accept that the career I thought I had bot up is over and that I could do worse than an idle life in Malta.

Joseph Calleja in Malta

Last night I went to the latest Joseph Calleja concert at the Granaries in Floriana, Malta. Calleja, the Maltese tenor who has carved an international reputation, and who is widely seen as Pavarotti's successor, entertained the thousands present with a combination of operatic arias and other songs. He was joined by Ronan Keating and by Gigi D'Alessio. It was a mesmerising performance. Calleja has a truly stupendous voice, which continues to grow in resonance and depth. His breath control has also become a thing to be marvelled at. He seriously out-performed the others on stage. At the same time, he comes across as a warm and personable man, gentle and unassuming. His recent elevation to Cultural Ambasssador for Malta is a fair one, and can only be good for Malta. I look forward to many more years of this incomparable talent.

Further News from Malta

Did I tell you it was Malta? I have a sudden fear that you did not know where the Island Paradise is. Well, it is here, on the tiny island of Malta. Three days in, I am so relaxed I even forgot a telephone conference that I had promised to dial into. It has proved extraordinarily easy to slip back into the routine of late rises, long days by the sea (or, better, in it) before returning to spruce up for an evening of friends and fun. Like so many Mediterranean peoples, the Maltese know how to live. Unlike many others, they work extremely hard. The economy is, on the whole, sound. Certainly the public sector could do with reforms, but it is nowhere near as bad as some other economies. Of course, a holiday is not the same as living here. It is a small place and can get claustrophobic. People settle scores: sometimes to the detriment of the country, as seems to be happening now. It is cultured, but limited in scope. But there is a lot more to celebrate than to regret. At least I thought so. But Malta should look after the sons who have served her well and not allow the point-scoring of a few politicians to decry and destroy the work of some of her best and most impressive. We should all be ashamed.

Island Paradise

Oh, alright, perhaps Paradise is an exaggeration - but not much. I have been here for just over forty-eight hours. In that time, I have swum, sunbathed, attended a wedding, enjoyed the food and the drink, and finally caught up on my sleep. I have met old friends, gossiped and generally had a good time. I have attended a cousin's wedding, solved the difficulties of the universe, and got slightly sunburnt because I underestimated the strength of the sun and how white I was. I am no longer white: I am variously pink, red and cream, depending on which bit you are looking at.

My hair and my skin feel wonderful. I put this down to the sea and the relaxation. Food, today, seems superfluous. The only really important thing is lots of water. I smile at everybody, and mostly they smile back. Soon, I shall return to my room. I shall sit out on the balcony, watching the sea, and the boats returning to harbour. I shall write a few notes and get an early night. And I shall be content. I wish Molly was here.

Journey From Hell: the plane I almost missed

I am exhausted. I have been up since six this morning (not an hour with which I am normally acquainted). When I awoke, my head still hurt from all the crying I did yesterday (see previous post) and I couldn't imagine why I wanted to leave the rain-soaked lands of one island for the sun-drenched shores of the other. However, the flight was booked, the taxi was coming, the bag was packed; and Molly was at the cattery.

When the taxi arrived, at 0700, I was ready. We were going to Gatwick. He would get me there in about two and a half hours, he assured me. Absolute worst case scenario, we would be there by 10.30. HUH!!! He was reckoning without a very bad-tempered M1 on a particularly rainy morning, with an unusual weight of traffic. By 09.30 we still had not joined the M25. I was breathing deeply and trying to think calming thoughts. There was no point haranguing the driver - it wasn't his fault.

I won't bore you with the details. Suffice it to say that the flight was leaving at 11.55, and we got to the airport at 11.25. I thanked him, gave him a tip (I think I have become too anglicised) and raced for the check in desk, confident that all would be well - after all, I had checked in on line; all I needed to do was drop my bags.

I arrived at the correct location. I could see no check in desk. I asked. The check in desk had closed five minutes before. Disbelief washed over me. There must have been total desperation in my voice. I was on my way to a family wedding on the following day; I had to get this flight. A kindly security person took pity on me, disappearing behind the desks. Eventually a very disinterested check-in lady arrived, took my bag, pointed me towards security, cheerfully informed me that the flight would close in fifteen minutes.

I do not normally move quickly. Today was an exception. Security was fortunately relatively clear. I headed for the gate. I had ten minutes. No problem. Until I discovered it was the farthest gate - at least a twenty minute walk.

I panted to a stop at the gate at exactly 11.45, the time the gate was purportedly closing, you will recall. They had not started boarding. To say I was peeved is to understate the case considerably.

However, it is now several hours later. I am on the sun-drenched island, the sea is lapping at the shore, the white wine is good and I am relaxed. Perhaps the problem is the travel. Perhaps, I should just stay here.

Today, I took my cat to the Cattery

This afternoon, I took Molly Cat to the Cattery. It was the first time I had done this, but I assured myself all would be fine. She is, after all, a cat. I was not consigning my child to the Workhouse.

Frankly, I might as well have been. I arrived at the cattery with Molly in her carrier. She was less happy this time, distinctly grumpy. I found the place, parked and picked up the carrier. Molly was unusually silent. As I approached reception, I felt the familiar prickle behind my eyes. 'You are NOT going to cry' I told myself - to no avail. As I checked her in, I was blinded by tears. The nice lady was calm, told me I was fine, insisted this happened all the time. I could not decide what was worse: the misery of leaving her, or the shame of sobbing openly about it.

We took her to her 'room': it looks fine; the other cats are happy. I am miserable. The kind lady gives me a card: 'ring if you are worried'. I suspect I may be ringing her every day. With shame, I remember being irritated that my mother phoned the kennels about Jasper every day when she was with me. How could I have been so obtuse? They worm their way into your heart. I can't wait to pick her up again.