Relaxing...

Not such an early start but not bad all things considered – slept very well! Managed to get the bus the back of 9. Got a good spot on the beach, lost the boy for an hour as he went off in search of fishing gear, roasted for the morning with occasional plunges in the med. Quick beer in the shade and back to cooking in the sun. Somehow got conned into dabbling in the fine art of fishing. Some guy took pity on the boy and his feeble attempts at chucking some hooks in the water and showed him how to do it. No luck in the fish catching but, my god, he can chuck a mean line.

Back to Marsascala. For all the bus drivers have fallen foul of criticism after the recent strike we’ve been very lucky with paying/not paying. Is this a good thing? Morally should I feel bad about it? We’ve paid full fare once, half fare once and 1 free trip. Great! Went looking for a paper and milk. Ended up in what passes itself as a postoffice. Not so sure what this entails myself – but it sells a remarkable amount of ‘stuff’. The poor women in there were being barracked by a man. English. 70s. Comedian. You can imagine. Think Butlins, 1970s, where humour of a certain pedigree was once the mainstay of the British working classes. I smiled at one of the women who looked completely nonplussed by his mockney, sexist comments. I asked if he was a regular. She said he lived here. Oh dear I think I commented. Then the boy asked if we could get milk and eggs anywhere and would you believe it but another Englishman of a certain age happened to be in the shop at the moment and asked what we were after and offered us Colmans mustard as if it were contraband. I declined this most generous offer. Do I look like the sort of person who requires Colman’s Mustard ? Back to the apartment for a shower and siesta and then on to the balcony to try and finish the book I started about 2 days ago. The boy has been out fishing again, determined to catch the one that got away! About to meet him for supper. He’s hungry. It’s been a busy day for him.

Cats are almost revered on Malta. They run wild for the most part and are fed and watered by the locals. In England they wouldn’t be given this much care and attention! The boy takes great delight in watching the antics of the kittens across the way in some derelict land. I think he has names for some of them.
Sounds like some bombs are going off somewhere. Maybe it’s a festa.