Dwar il-kamra l-baxxa

Health and safety hazard:

Dear reader, if you fall in one or more of these categories: are easily disgusted by mention and/or description of bodily waste; have eaten recently/intend to eat shortly; are not interested whatsoever in matters related to my excretion practices; then I suggest you close this window and proceed with some other fruitful Internet browsing. Otherwise, read on, but you have been warned....

I excuse myself with the non-Maltese readers for putting a Maltese title for this post, but I simply could not think of an English equivalent: "il-kamra l-baxxa" is the polite way for us Maltese to refer to the wo/men's toilet room...I know, there is lavatory, restroom but I do not think they actually have the same effect (and, by the way, the prefix "dwar" in the title is simply a word meaning "concerning". Thus, this post is, quite frankly, concerned with the toilet). The literal translation of "il-kamra l-baxxa" would be "the low room", a label whose origin I am not totally sure of: it is either related to the fact that, in the past, the toilet was apparently placed in a low-roofed room (which does not make sense since you would want a higher floor-to-ceiling height to ease with fume diffusion, if you know what I mean, but maybe that is too much of an architect's view, or else it is a title given to the room which deserves to be at the lowest in the hierarchy of importance within a dwelling, which I totally believe is not the case, since this room is actually quite vital, as this post will illustrate...

In my first science lessons back in the first year of secondary school, my science teacher taught me that, for an organism to be classified as "alive", it must exhibit 7 vital functions, one of which is precisely that of excretion. Thus, I very strongly believe that there is nothing wrong and/or disgusting with me talking about this subject since the lack of it would imply that I am not alive! However, for the vast majority of my life, I have been very reluctant in exhibiting this vital sign when I am out of home. Let me rephrase: I have been very uncomfortable relieving my digestive tract from solid waste when I am out of home (fluids are quite easy in the case of men, even when the necessary toilet-ware is not present - a tree, corner or wherever will do, provided public decency is respected!) But then the notion of having to sit down for any period ranging from a few seconds to a couple of minutes on a public toilet has always troubled me. Until I stepped into the real world...

Once I started working in the industry, for 8 hour long days, it would have been a masochistic practice to refrain from getting rid of body waste whenever this was necessary during working hours. Thus, I had to let go - well, quite literally - and get used to the idea of using a toilet which is not within my home. There was one catch: in all offices I worked, there was always a single men's toilet, which meant that I would be in a sanctuary of solitude where all my affairs are done in full privacy with no interference from third parties. So far, so good. This was actually good practice for my time in London when, again, at 2000km away from home, I had no choice but to get used to using "stranger" toilets. Once more, I had an ensuite bathroom and shared a room with a very considerate room mate; we had out-of-phase WC-using habits and this proved to be very convenient. Bliss. Until a few months ago, I moved back to London, where I had to get used to the fantastic notion of shared WCs and 8 hour long days at Imperial where, unlike the small scale offices I was used to, had many WCs in a single room to cater for several dozen men!

Scenario: early on during the day, the abdominal urge for freedom increases exponentially with time and I have to go...well, I do, only to find that, in an adjacent cubicle, there is someone else. I go in, lock myself and sit. I twist and turn, awaiting the moment when my neighbour decides to get it over and done with, leaves the room and leaves me in the peace and quiet I need to do my job. Across the partition, I hear the hustle of a newspaper. "God! Why won't he hurry up and read it on the Tube instead!" I feel completely uncomfortable with the very thought of doing it when I know there is someone else next to me less than a metre away, reading a newspaper! But other people seem not to be bothered. The noise of paper is suddenly accompanied by a sharp release of body-induced gas, as if my presence is completely non-existent. I would not even dream of doing that! But apparently others simply cannot be bothered! At long last the moment arrives when he has read enough and flushes. The noise of flushing water is enough to disguise my own initial relief which, by now, has reached an intolerable limit and is past the point of no return.

A similar incident happened then in my hall of residence, only that this time the roles were reversed. I was in my cubicle first, peacefully having my daily dose of The Evening Standard Sudoku, when someone walked into the room. The dude politely sat down in his cubicle and sat there quietly waiting for me to make my move. Only that I was still not completely satisfied yet and, besides, this particular puzzle was quite challenging and wanted to finish it then! The delay was lengthy enough for that guy to pull up his trousers, leave the room and seek an alternative restroom! So at least this one had the decency not to do it when he knew someone else was in the room!

These are some of the incidents which on an almost daily basis I have to face. To date, I still cannot fathom the idea of how I can use the WC in #2 mode when I am not alone in the room. Perhaps that will be the next step...fully letting go and do-what-you-have-to-do, irrespective of whether I am alone or not! But I find that utterly disgusting! However, thinking about it, perhaps it is not that uncivilised after all. The Romans, who were the most cultured and civilised people of their time, had communal toilets, where men sat (stark naked) in a circle, sitting down next to each other, with no dividing partitions, and did their thing quite openly. I know this is how they did it since I actually have been to a number of Roman ruins and sat on some of these public toilet things...fully clothed and just to take a picture and not have a go, of course (see above). Mmmm, perhaps it is not that bad after all!

"Everywhere you go...

...you always take the weather with you" - so did Crowded House sing back in the early 1990s. Apparently, this does not work with me! I pointed out in a previous post that in the last days of 2009 and first couple of weeks of 2010, it was quite cold here in the UK but not in Malta; while freezing temperatures and several centimetres of snow were covering most parts of the UK (and indeed the whole of Europe), I was enjoying 24 degrees on Christmas Day back home! A 'white Christmas' is definitely something which the Maltese will never enjoy in their homeland, unless the Earth is struck by some giant meteorite which will push the planet a few thousand kilometres further away from the sun! Alas, when I came back, I found London to be slightly colder than how I left it - I failed to bring the weather with me. You got it: this is all about the current weather situation here...

My first few days at Imperial involved a lot of catching up: notably, resuming my work on my Ph.D. (which is now in its fourth month) but also recapitulating with my colleagues after the Christmas break. I have been the envy of virtually all of my friends at Imperial whenever I mentioned that Malta was quite warm with the lowest temperature was about 15 degrees at night: everyone else was struggling with the cold in the UK, Italy, France or whatever other country...all except one, who was in India over Christmas and spent the first days of "winter" in 34 degrees or more. I have rarely complained of being cold since I have been in London, but this winter was very much an exceptionally cold one. Almost all parts of Europe were battered by icy winds and snowstorms from the Arctic and Siberia and these brought transportation to a standstill: rail, air and road traffic was (literally) frozen for a few days and London was not spared from all this.

While I was at home, I received an email from my hall's warden asking me the date of my return so that my room's heating can be switched on in advance in order for me to find it nice and warm upon my return. My reply: please do not turn it on! I have never switched on my bedroom's heater (honestly!) but I must say that when I returned to London, it was quite cold, even for my taste. For a few days, the maximum temperature was 1 or 2 degrees and went sub-zero at night, the former forcing me to wear 1 extra layer of clothing and the latter implied that I had to keep my bedroom's window closed at night. Buildings here are designed to keep the cold outside and thus are usually warm enough. But in my daily walks to and from Imperial and other places, I had to resort to my thicker jacket, scarf and, most importantly, gloves. I simply could not afford to take my gloves off to handle my iPod or mobile: my fingers would otherwise simply fall off! Luckily, I still have all 10 to date...

For a Maltese citizen like me, the sight of snow is always thrilling, worthy of photographs and SMSes/emails/Facebook status updates to notify the rest of the Maltese population of the event. One particular day this week, I woke up and found that all the snow was gone, which I thought occurred surprisingly fast. None fell during that day but, upon waking up the next day, everywhere was one big patch of white. I was amazed at how much snow could fall overnight - I headed to Hyde Park without any trace of guilt of leaving my Ph.D. work awaiting me (it could wait till snowless days!) and let myself enjoy the unusual sights of greenery replaced by a uniform shade of white. Including the Serpentine, which was all frozen and turned to ice; unbelievable.

The big chill did last till midweek or so and I thought that snow was now becoming more of a nuisance rather than a source of excitement. Once it gets walked upon, it consolidates and becomes ice: terribly dangerous sources of slips (from which I was luckily spared, although forced me to walk at 5cm/s). Not to mention the effect of car traffic, turning to wonderful white snow into dirty, grey mushy stuff. Eugh. The 1 or 2 degree temperatures were becoming too persistent that I thought Sainsbury's might consider changing their food labels from "Keep refrigerated" to "Keep refrigerated or place on window sill" but I was wrong. Temperatures are now up to 7 or 8 degrees and I am back to normal: no excessive clothing, normal thin jacket and window open 24/7. Which brings me to the last unfortunate incident for the week...

Friday night and all its glory arrived: pub, movie, late night. Plan: do not wake up the next day unless motivated by biological needs (feeding and/or excretion). Picture this: 8.30am, keen workmen operate a jackhammer on some concrete roof a few metres from my (open) bedroom window. Result: I inevitably have to get up to close my window and try to get back to sleep. The double glazing helped cut off the sound but only for a few minutes. The wonderful London weather decides to start off the day with a shower, forcing the workmen to call it a day. The jackhammer noise stops but I am already up...so I have to say, "Screw it, I might as well get up!" and that was the ruin of my planned Saturday morning lie in. Thank you, weather.

So back to where I started: when I returned from Malta, I terribly failed in brining the weather back with me. But there is some hope: this week promises will be "warmer" than the last couple of days and, as I expect a spontaneous visit from Malta in a few days' time by my other half followed by another visit by a friend of mine, I pray that, this time round, the message from the Crowded House song does materialise and they bring along some good dose of Mediterranean sun!

The city and the big screen

During my Christmas trip to Malta, my schedule was packed with rendezvouses (is that the plural of rendezvous?!), events, dinners...and much needed sleep and rest! One of the items in my diary was scheduled for Boxing Day: a do with my friends at the house of the only married couple in my circle of friends. So far, at least. During the gathering, it was decided, by chance or to fit in with the Christmas season, to watch a Love, actually DVD. It had been a while since I saw that movie. I must say that, on the first time I attempted in watching that movie a few years ago, it had really put me off and/or simply had too many different, unrelated plots going on at the same time for my simple mind to understand. However, a few months after that unhappy attempt, I managed to complete it and, to my surprise, found it rather entertaining. Back to my viewing of December 2009...as my friends and I watched the film, I naturally started pointing out various landmarks around London which have now become part of my daily surroundings and this led me to ponder about the role of London in other movies...

Thus, I recently decided to unearth Notting Hill, possibly the flick which has the most obvious Londonesque flavour associated with it. Now I would like to point out that I am not the world's most ardent Hugh Grant fan; mentioning 2 of his movies in the spaces of a few seconds is mere coincidence (naturally the same cannot be said for the Miss Roberts, the 'Pretty Woman', who plays quite "at home" as a film star in the movie). Also, Notting Hill is not exactly the first movie one would immediately associate with a guy, even one who has a very prominent softer side. The reason is quite simple: for a year, I lived right in the heart of Kensington, precisely in W8, which is right south of Notting Hill, W11. Thus, I thought that Notting Hill would be a good starting point in my quest to find movies featuring familiar London sites. The outcome from the viewing was (to use a word from movie itself) quite a surreal experience!

The shots in Portobello Road and all its colourful activities were certainly not new to me: simply walking along with the crowds, gazing upon the antiques and the pastel-coloured doors is very entertaining. And the spotting of the shop called "ATLAM" always draws my attention each time I walk past it; the name is actually Malta spelt backwards, in case you did not notice; a deliberate naming since 1 of the 2 original partners who set it up was (surprise, surprise) Maltese - a fact verified by verbal inquisition, by me, naturally. Having actually experienced being to Portobello on a market day makes watching the movie so much more 'alive', a feeling I could not fully understand back in 1999 or 2000 whenever I first saw it...and more aspects of London life were to be appreciated in the movie...

The reader might easily recall the night scene when Grant and Roberts get into a private garden after Grant's many attempts to jump over the railing and Roberts' sole successful go. When I first saw the movie almost a decade ago, I could not fully perceive the 'why' and 'how' behind the very concept of a communal, private garden simply because it did not exist in my mind; there are no such things in Malta! However, after almost 2 years here in London, it is very common to encounter one of these private gardens (for a year I actually lived beside Lexham Gardens). These are simply green, open spaces within residential areas, only accessible through locked gates whose access is restricted to a number of residents occupying premises around the gardens. These landscaped pockets are not uncommon and create well-dispersed green lungs throughout London in addition to the larger parks. In fact, in my daily route from Earl's Court to Imperial, I walk by Lexham Gardens, Cornwall Gardens and Queen's Gate Gardens, all within 15 minutes' worth of walking distance.

Perhaps the most "exciting" discovery during my Notting Hill viewing was during the cinema scene. Again, the reader might recall the scene when Grant goes to watch Roberts' latest movie at the cinema. Once more, I did not recall any particular excitement from my part when I first saw that scene a few years back. However, when I now realised that I have actually been in that very cinema (the "Coronet" in Notting Hill), then it is much more noteworthy! I remember that back in the summer of 2008, whilst my room-mate and I were busy working on our M.Sc. projects, we decided to have a well-deserved break and go and watch the latest Batman movie. As I pointed out earlier, we lived close to Notting Hill and opted to go to that cinema, both totally unaware of its previous featuring in Notting Hill. And we actually sat in the same row Grant was in the balcony!

A final interesting line was during the scene when Grant and his mates had to get from Notting Hill to the Ritz quickly and they debate as to which route they ought to take. One of them actually suggests "taking the Cromwell Road and then turning left". Surely I had no idea back in 1999 what the Cromwell Road was but now that I have been walking to and fro up the Cromwell Road at least twice a day for almost a year and a half, I definitely know what and where it is!

Of course, there are many other movies with London in it which come to mind: a couple of Bond movies, Basic instinct 2 and Bridget Jones come to mind. From the Notting Hill movie, at least I can say that most of the London-related stuff was quite realistic and faithful to reality; the same cannot be said to many a time when Malta was featured in movies, particularly The Count of Monte Cristo and Cutthroat Island, when scenes shot in 2 completely different locations on the island are meant to be the same place in the movie! I do not plan to limit my movie viewing to just those featuring London or to spend my time analysing "correctness" or otherwise in the shooting but I am sure that whenever I watch a flick with London as its setting, then I will surely be on the look-out for familiar locations or maybe people: perhaps I will accidentally feature in some movie myself and extend my movie career beyond Troy!

The end of a decade...the dawn of a new one...

It has been a while since I visited my blog but, at this late hour approaching the end of the first week of 2010, I felt I had to round up 2009 and bring to light my blogging for 2010. I do not promise that this will be a short post since I have to squeeze in the events of 3 packed weeks...but will do my best to be concise!

Between 11/12 and 13/12, I went up north to Nottingham to visit one of my Maltese friends there, who is also doing a Ph.D. in mechanical engineering. It was my 2nd trip to Notts and, somehow, whenever I am there, the temperature is almost freezing! All in all, it was a good trip: lots of talk, walk, shopping, music and food...the trips by coach were a bit too long (I would have gone to Malta in the 3 hours each way!) but definitely worth it!

Back to London, the Christmas spirit started to get progressively more and more intense. The Departmental Christmas do took place on the 14/12, an event which would merit a blog post of its own. The food was, surprisingly, quite rubbish but the same cannot be said for the provision of free wine and beer all night long. And this was a necessary motivator for me to be bestowed with all kinds of titles the next day: "the dancing king", "the man on fire", "the man who knows the moves" and what not...all I asked my colleagues was for them to request the D.J. to play Billie Jean and/or Human and then the rest is history: I took over the dance floor and kept the party alive till the late hours of that night, finished off by a few handsome shots of Jagermeister and finally by a McDonald's meal (shame!) on the way home and a good, solid 8 hour sleep.

The next day was the least productive workday of the year but motivation increased rapidly in the late afternoon in preparation for the dinner to a Thai place kindly organised and sponsored by my supervisor in the company of several other characters who, away from campus, displayed their more colourful sides. A night again topped off by a couple of G+T in an attempt to aid me beat the bitter night cold which, by 15/12, was starting to increase exponentially.

The last few days of the week were characterised by the first snowfalls in London for the month of December. And, on a less entertaining note, by my nose displaying severe constant leakages which, at best, proved to be highly inconvenient. Besides the unavoidable awe at the sight of snowfall, I was heavily engaged in fabricating white lies to disguise my premature trip to Malta for the Christmas period. To the best knowledge of my family, I was meant to arrive in Malta on 24/12 but, in actual fact, I was scheduled to get there on the 19/12, on a 7am Easyjet flight from Gatwick. This implied being at Gatwick at least by 6am thus leaving Victoria at least by 5am and Earls Court by 4am. Stressful. Solution: I made arrangements with one of my Italian colleagues to stay at his place at Clapham and get the train directly from there with no additional interchanges. Perfect!

And thus the end of term arrived. On Friday morning, all packed and wrapped up, with dripping nose and all, I left home as usual at 9am and was awake for the following 22 hours! After a very unproductive day at the office, a good night-out of drinks/pizza/clubbing/drinks brought my 2009 stay at London to an end. Back to my friend's place on the verge of collapse, I succumbed to a brief 30 minute nap which alas ended at 4.45am. After negotiating nearly freezing temperatures and icy pavements for 10 minutes from my friend's place to Clapham Junction, I boarded a train to Gatwick. Once past security, I enjoyed an early English breakfast of eggs, bacon and all that goes with it, meant to keep me happy till I landed in Malta. I got on the plane, found a window seat, fastened my seatbelt and...slept!

2 hours later, I woke up, looked out of the window and all I saw was white, white, white. "Holy s***, we crashed in the Alps!" was my first thought. Soon I realised we were still at Gatwick on the runway: we had not departed yet due to heavy snow. Almost immediately, the plane started moving and took off. The next day I read in the papers that Gatwick airport shut down - perfect timing!

Three hours later: home sweet home. From just above freezing temperatures to sun and heat. Christmas with 24 degrees is not usual, unless you are in Australia, but Malta is an exception. Europe was literally frozen over and we were enjoying sunshine every day! It was a wonderful 2 week stay: good times with my other half, family and friends. Sorted out lots of logistical duties. Been around a few places. And consumed loads of food, glorious food. On new year's eve, I was out at this street party in Floriana, which proved to be quite amusing and a success, particularly due to the relatively mild weather which allowed us to stay out partying practically all night long without freezing to death as some unfortunate homeless Europeans ended up doing a few days earlier...and people talk of global warming?!

Like all good things, my trip to Malta for December 2009/January 2010 came to an end. I flew back on 3/1, terrified of the immense inertia I felt towards resuming my work and my independent living in London: life was too comfortable doing "nothing" and finding "everything" ready!

All in all, 2009 was a great year. I started off working in London, found myself back in Malta and starting a new job there, a brief return to London to graduate as M.Sc. D.I.C., back to routine Malta life, a surprise contact from Imperial and a Ph.D. offer, some serious course-of-life-altering decisions and back in London!

Actually looking back at the period 2000-2010, it was a good decade. The first few years brought my teen years and all the occurrences associated with them to an end. The biggest chunk of the decade was largely devoted to my undergraduate schooling more than anything else; 2001-2006 laid the foundations for me to launch my career in the world of architecture and engineering. Running in parallel to all this: the discovery of my soul-mate. And the final few years: an exciting mix of working in the industry, realisation of building projects, travel and moving to one of Europe's most exciting cities to pursue and finish postgraduate study, work and embark on a doctorate.

And 2010? Definitely one of those really good years. So far, definitely the coolest year ever (the maximum temperature we had in London so far was 1 degree)...joking apart, I am sure 2010 will be unforgettable and radically life-changing and will merit decent blogging. So, watch out!

"Please mind the gap..."

For someone like me who comes from an island country having the size of Malta, the concept of distance is virtually non-existent. With a maximum length of 22km, one could drive along the entire country of Malta in just under an hour, even with decent amounts of traffic. Thus, when I first came to the U.K., the utterance, “We live only an hour away!” was totally absurd and beyond my understanding! I recall the first time I was in a car (i.e., a passenger) here in England during a drive from Guildford to Oxford with my cousin: the seemingly infinite motorway was driving me close to insanity! However, I quickly realised that England (and all other countries with the exception of Vatican, San Marino and the like) are larger, much larger, than Malta and it was legitimate to persuade myself that long-distance travel is possible.

The notion of travelling for me is limited since I live virtually on-campus and go the Imperial on foot (a 20 minute walk each way). I actually enjoy walking for various reasons: it is a healthy activity, it allows me to enjoy London’s architecture and (last, but not the least) it is free. Whenever it rains, I opt for the bus, a trip which, given the acute traffic in central London (despite the hefty £7 daily congestion charge), not surprisingly takes double the time required for me to walk! For busy commuters who wish to avoid the stressful traffic, there is the wonderful alternative that is the London Underground. A quick time for facts: London’s metro is the world’s oldest and the colour-coded Tube map is almost part of London’s identity as much as the London Eye or the Big Ben. The term ‘underground’ is somewhat misleading, given that most of the network is actually above ground but the Brits still affectionately refer to the capital’s metro as The Tube, a name derived from the tubular shape of the tunnels which form a maze deep below the busy roads of London.

Whenever I need to travel for reasonable distances, I take the Tube. It is (generally) fast, efficient and the many, many lines and possible combinations of interchanges between them almost ensure that one can get to any part of London via the metro. The Tube is managed by Transport for London (tfL), which, I must say, (generally, again) does a very good job at keeping the network running smoothly, with proper provision of information for commuters, maintenance scheduled and advertised well in advance and also improving the service. Now this whole idea of the post came about precisely after I first spotted the first advert or, I would say, propaganda poster regarding a major improvement being done on the Tube system: the extension of the Circle Line.

For the benefit of readers not acquainted with the Tube system, the network is organised into several “lines”, each with a particular name and colour, the latter easily identified on Tube maps. Thus, we have the District (green) Line, the Piccadilly (blue) Line, the Northern (black) line and so on and so forth. The upcoming tfL project is the extension of the Circle (yellow) Line. Again, for those not familiar with the Tube map, the Circle Line is, as the name suggests, a continuous line of track forming a loop around central London, effectively enclosing Zone 1 of the concentric zones forming London. Indeed, virtually all of the main London sights are within the perimeter described by the Circle Line.

I do not like the Circle Line. Let me rephrase: I do not like to use the Circle Line, for a number of reasons. For almost all of its length, the Circle Line runs in parallel with other lines (District, Metropolitan and Hammersmith & City Lines) and thus one could really use any of these lines rather than the Circle. Besides, there are too many stops and bends and turns in the Circle Line route, making trips on it slow compared to, for example, the Central or Jubilee Lines. Finally, the Circle Line is virtually closed off in its entirety during weekends “for engineering work”. Thus, from a purely transportation point of view, I think the Circle Line should be closed down altogether and the yellow colour used for some other new line.

However, I must say that I love the concept of the Circle Line. The very notion of having a train network around the core of the capital which easily allows the visitor to get within reach of the must-sees using just a single line: South Ken and its museums, Westminster, Embankment, Tower Hill, Monument for St. Paul’s and all around to Baker Street and Notting Hill. Thus, from a more romantic (in its dreamy sense, of course) point of view, I think the Circle Line is the authentic London Underground line.

The new extension to the Circle Line, due to open on 13/12/09, consists of the formation of a new branch off the Circle Line (by definition, a circle cannot be extended) down to Hammersmith. Once more, this is nothing more than continuing the Circle Line in parallel with the Hammersmith & City Line and thus, in effect, is not really necessary. My point is: with the extension, the concept of the Circle Line as a circle around central London will be messed up. Ruined. Screwed. Mind you, tfL have done a very good job at informing the public: the posters are a very attractive piece of marketing design, with a yellow loop mimicking the Circle Line and the pros of the project branching off in the fashion of station names on the Tube map. However, the new branch will disrupt the continuity of the original circle, effectively making the name “Circle” redundant.

I think 13/12/09 is a sad day in the history of the Tube: a deliberate rape of my least favourite line, making it now prey to my pity. My suggestion in an attempt to restore the circular route would be to close off the Circle Line between Gloucester Road and Edgware Road (the 2 are linked by the District Line anyway) and instead link Gloucester Road with Hammersmith, making the ring complete once more. Thus, my final plea to tfL is fix the circularity of the Circle Line and my message can best be delivered using its own jargon: “Mind the gap!”

Cousin of the bride

Note:

This post might, at times, seem to be a lesson in demographics, wedding planning services or even a genealogical research project, but is generally not intended to be anything of the sort. The occasional commentaries are necessary simply to help the non-Maltese reader get better acquainted with my own background and that of Malta's culture.

Maltese families tend to be quite big, mainly due to the extensive number of relatives one will have from the Baby Boomers generation, i.e., that of my parents. Possibly the strong Catholic culture, which, till very recently, moulded the Maltese society, led to couples having vast numbers of children in the post war years; families with 8+ children were not uncommon! In fact, I have a total of 15 uncles and aunts. Out of these, 3 had settled permanently in the U.K. before I was born and, consequently, having grown up in Malta, unfortunately failed to be present for virtually all major events in the lives of my 7 U.K. cousins. However, now that I am in the U.K. myself, things are, of course, slightly different! All but 2 of my U.K. cousins got married before I moved to London and 4 of them now have children of their own; indeed I have attended christening ceremonies and birthday parties of a few but this week I managed to attend one "big" ceremony: the wedding of my cousin Anna to Paul.

Generally, I do not like ceremonies at all: I hate formalities (though always seem to bring on more of these unto myself due to my persistent academic ventures), I am not a fan of picture posing (though many say I am photogenic) and I get claustrophobic feelings when I button up all of my shirt buttons AND, even more so, when I wear a tie (and there is no "though" appendage to this fact, period). This time, I was quite excited about this ceremony: it was going to be a good occasion to meet all of my U.K. relatives at once (and all 'live', beyond Facebook and email), it promised to include bounteous food and booze (more on that later) and I was going to wear, for the first time, a cuff-linked shirt. The latter I bought especially for the occasion and, since I had wanted to wear one of the sort (as opposed to the conventional type) for a while, I was looking forward for the 'dressing up' bit. Besides, this was going to be the first English wedding I will be attending (not to mention that, being on a Friday, it meant taking a day off and enjoying a long weekend). All these factors combined together made 04/12/09 a day to look forward to.

The weather on the eve of the wedding was rubbish: cold and rainy. I dreaded the very idea of having to travel up to Harrow in typical winter weather. But Friday morning was beautiful: sun and blue, cloudless skies. Perfect. I opted for the cleanly-shaven look - very unusual for me, but since the Brits are such hardcore conservatives, I knew that all men will be lacking any form of beard and me attending with facial hair, albeit groomed, would make me stand out like a sore thumb. Morning shower, after shave, hair fixing, careful dosage of Burberry perfume so as not to tickle my nose unnecessarily, trousers, socks, shoes, shirt, belt, tie and jacket and off to the Tube. I was not running late but simply had not enough time to clear up all the mess in my room; for the first time in my life, I left home without first putting all in place...

I arrived at the church bang on time at 1pm (the bride was almost half an hour late anyway) and after the first couple of greetings, I made my way in. The service itself was quite similar to what a normal Roman Catholic wedding ceremony would be in Malta, except that no Communion was administered. Alas, yet another bearer of the Micallef name in the U.K. was gone and Anna had become Mrs. Brennan. I later pointed out to my uncle that unless my 2 male (Micallef) cousins have boys of their own in the future (after having both fathered a girl each), the fate of the Micallef name was essentially dependent on me! The guarantee of the survival of the name for at least another generation would be left entirely in my hands to have a boy at some point! Well, not exactly my hands, but you know what I mean! Quite a responsibility placed on me there!

By the end of the service, the English sun had already retired for the day and thus the day got a bit fresher. A short drive down to Ealing and the reception was about to begin. Now this is where things get different from the stereotypical Maltese wedding. Most wedding functions in Malta take the form of a standing up cocktail reception with passed canapés and that sort of food items and usually served with an open bar with free flowing booze. After 2 or 3 hours, the couple make their first dance, they cut the wedding cake, the bride throws her bouquet and off they head for their nuptial night. The course of events which were to follow in the English wedding differed slightly, as I soon was about to start discovering as the night unfolded.

Upon arrival at the reception venue at around 3pm, us guests were greeted by a welcoming drink and light canapés; I opted for the warm mulled wine option, given that (a) it smelt wonderful and (b) needed to warm up slightly from the external chill and (c) I prefer wine more than anything else. More greetings with my relatives followed, with me giving updates from Malta and I getting news from each of my fellow U.K. family members. My cousin's husband Rob immediately found out that I was pretty much a virgin attendee at an English wedding (no pun intended!) and promised to be my personal tutor for the night. After the welcome drinks, guests headed to the bar, where they started with pre-meal drinks. Most opted for beer - typical English behaviour. Thus, I had my first beer of the night, a Guinness by default.

After the pre-meal drinks, we made our way to the banqueting area, where the guests were seated and ready to start dining. A 3 course meal of warm soup, roast and Yorkshire pudding (what else?!) and finally Baci cake, all washed down with constantly-topped-up wine (definitely red in my case) and finally a coffee. By 7pm, I sensed it was going to be an early night but Rob promptly indicated that the fun part was about to begin. I found out that 3 speeches would follow, 1 by each of the following: the bride's father, the groom and the bestman. Before the speeches, every guest had to guess how long all speeches would take and put money on the gamble: a mere £1. After all was said, the person who had made the best guess would then get all the money in the kitty. Not bad. From my inexperience, I guessed 27 minutes (I later found out that I was WAY out by a factor of 2).

The speeches were hilarious but I strictly do not wish that these were part of Maltese weddings since they tended to be heavily biased on attacking the groom, so definitely no thank you. After the speeches, all headed to the bar area again or, more precisely, to the bar, where some serious drinking started going on. To fit in handsomely with the English way of doing things, I opted for gin-and-tonic, on the rocks, with a slice of lemon and this was to be the fixed beverage for the rest of the night (actually I lost count of how often I hopped to and fro fetching gin-and-tonics amidst lively conversations with my cousins, uncles and aunts and other guests I met that day). In the meantime, the banqueting area was stripped of all furniture, creating a fully fletched dance floor, complete with DJ and lights. As I was instructed, people would now start dancing...disco dancing that is!

I am not an avid dancer but, greatly aided by my body's gin-and-tonic content, managed to spin to and whisk to Billie Jean and a number of 1980s classics: Fame, Eye of the tiger and many others which I (understandably) fail to recall at this point in time! Dancing makes you hungry and, thankfully, there were a few munchies provided in the bar area, to which I helped myself generously as the night progressed. Alongside the ever-present G+T. By 11pm, I realised I had to return home by Tube and started to bid my goodbyes, Happy Christmases, all the bests and all that jazz. A quick venture to the Tube station (which, given the context of the mission at that late hour turned out to be a success) and somehow landed at Earl's Court safe and sound. I made my way painfully up the 3 floors, stripped (alas to no one's amusement) and literally fell on my bed till 10.30am the next day.

When I opened my eyes, all I could see was chaos. My first recollection was a scene from the movie The hangover. No, there was no tiger waiting to devour me and I did not lose any teeth. Neither did I have a hangover. The room was just so untidy! I then realised that I had left the day before without putting all in place and returned with no intention of clearing up the mess: clothes, shoes, socks, clothes hangers, towels, shirt packaging, shower gel/deodorant/perfume bottles and what not on my basin. A quick shower brought me to my senses and in no time my room was ordered as usual till it was time for me to leave again for a post-wedding get-together at my uncle's house!

And that was my first English wedding! So, if you had to ask me whether I like English weddings, then rest assured that you would get nothing but one, very wedding-ly answer: "I do".

A cheesy incident

I am fond of food, quite fond actually. For me, the consumption of food is not simply a matter of supplying the body with the necessary amounts of energy, vitamins and whatever is required to keep it going; food is one of my few pleasures in life. I do not smoke, I do not do drugs, I do not drink, I do not gamble and I am not promiscuous and thus food is my only source of hedonistic activity. I will stop talking about food since it is making my mouth water and get straight to the point: an incident which occurred last week related to my well-known food-consuming antics...

It was an ordinary weekday and I had one of my usual tutorials with the M.Sc. group, with the latter including 2 Maltese students. After the tutorial was done, I decided to join the Maltese bunch for lunch rather than my usual Ph.D. colleagues and us 3 headed to the cafe found in the foyer of the Central Library building. On that day, I was totally famished, not an unusual feeling for me, especially after an hour of 'structural analysis' tutoring. As we stood in the queue (you see, the Brits love queues!) for the servery, I stood adjacent to a huge refrigerated display of baguettes with all kinds of filling varieties. The constant stomach grumbling, the smell of freshly baked pastries, all combined with the sight of the baguettes, made me impulsively go for a baguette. Not just any baguette but a baguette which immediately caught my fancy...

I told my Maltese colleagues, "This is it!" as I pointed to the particular baguette I was about to have. A honey-coloured, notoriously larger-than-usual baguette, both in length and in width, with protruding tomatoes of remarkable diameter (I would swear genetically modified!), attractively coloured lettuce and rucola leaves. Irresistibly appetising. "What is it?" inquired my colleague. "I don't care, I want that one!" was my immediate reply. I glanced at the label on the package and saw that it read "Bacon and *******", with the latter word beyond my vocabulary and which I am not revealing as yet since it would alter the course of the narrative. I did not care that I was not even vaguely aware of what the *** word was: Meat? Filling? Cheese? But the baguette looked too good to be true and I was having it just the same! I clearly indicated which one I wanted to the attendant, who promptly handed me my prized lunch and impatiently headed for the cash point, paid, hurriedly filled in a glass of water from the jug (which needed refilling and thus prolonging my wait!!) and finally sprinted to the first available table in the crowded cafe to encounter my lunch.

The 2 other Maltese eagerly waited for me to indulge in my baguette. I was even more enthusiastic to unwrap the (un)lucky baguette which was about to be my lunch for the day. Wrapper gone, I got hold of the thing and took one, large bite. And then: the curtain was drawn, my eyes were opened...but it was too late!

The unmistakable, characteristic and overwhelming taste of blue cheese. And loads of it. Enough to fill the largest baguette the Library cafe has ever seen. The *** word was none other than: Stilton. Now this deserves a quick explanatory note.

One of my favourite foods is cheese. Cheese of all forms and varieties: Brie, Camembert, Mexican, goat, Parmesan, Grana and all the rest; the process of cheese eating is almost an art in itself, combined with the right wine and choice of cold-cut meats, in a warm Maltese wine bar, with candle light and soft jazz playing in the background: heaven. BUT...I abhor blue cheese. The very sight of it. Even more the smell of it. Never had the misfortune of enduring the taste of it. So much so, that I never acquainted myself even with the varieties of blue cheese, such as the actual word "Stilton"!

So back to the Library cafe...as I chewed the first bite of my baguette which had caught the attention of my Maltese friends, they stared at me, waiting for my reaction. "So, is it good?" was the obvious question. "Too good," I lied, not wanting to embarrass myself. "Be right back, grabbing a Coke," I said as I left the table to get a bottle of anything which could aid in subsiding that horrible, horrible taste. Returning to my table, I was faced with the rest of the baguette, which now seemed even larger than ever before. The concave shape of my bite looked like a smiley face: the baguette grinning at me, as if saying, "Now finish me off, you bitch!" A task which I did, with a gulp of Coke after each painstakingly-made bite.

Lunchtime for that day was martyrdom. Dessert had to be half a pack of Polo mints to neutralise the taste of the Stilton. I was ashamed that I had fallen victim to a food item which I always insisted would never find its way in my stomach. To be honest, I always try to experiment with new, unusual foods and have succeeded in having most: snails, urchins, horse, tripes, black pudding...and might have succumbed to blue cheese at some point. But definitely not such an intense baptism of fire. Definitely not an enormous baguette loaded with Stilton!

Now, that the Stilton is out of my system and I have come to terms with the reality of me having consumed blue cheese as a result of my ignorance of the subject, I can confidently say that a well-known saying usually restricted to people can be safely extrapolated to foods: "Keep your friends close, but keep your enemies closer!"