Countdown to Thirty!

I'm not exactly sure how it happened, how it could have possibly come to this, but I'm turning thirty this week and I'm sure as hell not excited about it. For the past 11 months and 27 days it's been looming in the foggy background of my reluctant consciousness, and whenever it threatened to take a clearer form, I'd just shrug it off and declare that "I will cling on to 29 for four or five years at least and everybody can just stuff it thaaaaanks."

However, now that it is actually upon me, I decided that I'm going to be rational about it, and I will accept the fact that yes I do have 3 white hairs growing at my temple, and that I also have a couple of laugh lines that I worked very hard for. To help me in this endeavour I have tried to carry out a quick run through of the last decade which will allow me to discover whether:

a. the twenties sucked ... in that case, bring on the thirties! or
b. the twenties were awesome ... in which case that is a result of me being awesome, which is something that can only increase with age...so again bring on the thirties!

Either way, I'm coming out as a winner out of this post, and maybe, JUST MAYBE, I'll stop hyperventilating at the thought of what will happen in four day's time.

So ... let the countdown begin!!

Age 20

The twenties begin. Lost my mum. Passed my third year law final exams (no idea how - must have been the nutella I stuffed myself with). Established myself as a survivor.

Age 21

Got my first degree, celebrated and cried like there was no tomorrow. Travelled to Barcelona, and then to Vienna, and then to Cairo, and then to Barcelona again ... twice. Slept in a military camp during my third visit. Woke up to the sound of Bon Dia every morning. Discovered Spanish hunkiness. Failed Succession Law (of course I friggin did), a circumstance that set all other events in motion and changed my life. Passed my notarial law finals.

Age 22

Packed my bags and left the country for a year. Discovered that there is life beyond the cliffs, and that a train can lead you to everywhere you want when you are not stuck on an island. Learnt to listen, discover, tolerate. Laughed, cried, cared, grew. Got my second degree. Not as exciting as the first time.

Age 23

Came back to Malta and almost suffocated. Too small, too closed, too trivial. Went back to the law course and hated every minute of it. Tried to find a way to leave the island again. Failed. This year sucked.

Age 24

Started working on my thesis and got myself my first full time job. Did not actually mind writing my thesis, even though I have no idea now what the hell I was trying to prove (or disprove). Probably my tutor didn't either. Passed my exams. Was a trainer in an Anti Tobacco European Youth conference. Smoked more than I should have (at the time, I wasn't made of the same kind of awesome). Fell in love. Got my heart broken for reasons that made sense much later.

Age 25

Got my final degree. Couldn't have been less bothered. Uneventful year. Fell in love again. Got my heart broken again.

Age 26

Got the job I wanted and was deliriously happy about it for the following three years. Broke someone's heart (what the hell? It had to happen to sometime!) and confirmed that dumping is so much easier than being dumped. No wonder so many people did it to me. Ended a 15+ year friendship. No regrets, a girl's got to do what a girl's got to do!

Age 27

Have absolutely no idea what happened this year. Must have been pretty boring. Yeah ... guess what? I fell in love! And guess what ... wait for it, I got my heart broken! (I think I need my own TV show called "How I still have to meet your father"). Became a Home Owner and sold my soul HSBC for the next 30 years. Started a very special journey which changed my life ...

Age 28

Amicably parted ways with the church I was baptised in after being called "a wolf in lamb's clothing" for actually caring and accepting the fact that life is not a rainbow of christian happiness. Catholic-guilt free life is liberating. Should have thought about it sooner. Went to Ghana to do voluntary work. Somehow survived it. I truly rock.

Age 29

The final year. I spent most of it being disillusioned, demotivated, gratuitiously nasty and bit more heads off than I would like to admit. I also discovered my alter-ego Gracie, who is not much of an alter ego really since everyone knows who I am (joys of living on The Island).

Incredibly enough, Mr Fitzwilliam Darcy, rich land-owner from Derbyshire was, after more than 10 years, ousted from the top spot of Most Perfect Fictional Character EVER, by one Mr Peeta Mellark, baker from Disrict 12, Panem. The living Jaw that played his part in the movie version had nothing to do with it. Really. Seriously. Mmmmmm... that jaw. This damn baker set an unreachable bar of male perfection that no Real Guy can live up to. Hate him. But love him more.

Received an entirely unexpected surprise that is making my 29th year end on a totally positive note with a challenge which I'm very willing to take. And to top all the craziness, I ended my last weekend of my twenties at a Foam Party of the kind that I was introduced as "this is "Gracie" and she's a heterosexual!" and where the ratio of straight people to gay was like 1:10000. But I'm awesome really ... and managed to have an amazing time even though surrounded by gorgeous men who had absolutely no interest in what I had to offer, completely drenched to the bone by foam and with a mild onset of pneumonia.

My plans for the coming decade are vague, but somehow they will also include the conception of a MiniMe who will own her own pink laptop and will blog about her "many varied adventures at play school" and a visit to a coffee shot in Brooklyn with a laptop as I write my novel. Which by the way, will probably include a faghag at a foam party.

All I know however is that the twenties are ending on a high ... and I want to ride that wave into the next decade.

I'm going to be 30 dammnit, and I'm going to bloody well enjoy it :).

Love

Middle Aged Gracie :) xxx

'twas time for Africa!

A year ago exactly, I arrived in Ghana for what was to be an unforgettable (both in the good, and in the bad) experience of voluntary work in the village of Adentia. I cannot say that I look back at the time with nostalgia, or with a desire to go back, because I'm one of those people who has learnt to move on quite easily from an experience once that is over and done with. It was a lifelong dream, which was achieved, but which I will not repeat. However, I do think of those days with a certain fondness, especially when I think of the people with whom I lived the experience, and who I re-met just this week to share an amazing evening (and rabbit...and ice-cream).

A year on, some details are fuzzy, but I rediscovered the diary I kept at the time, and the emails I sent to my loved ones, and I thought I might share the latter, because they truly capture the mood I was in, and when it comes to first hand experiences of the Ghanaian life, it doesn't get more accurate than this :).

Hope you enjoy reading these emails as much as I enjoyed writing them in a little hut in the middle of friggin nowhere :) (special thanks to Voafone and its internet key :D)

PS Have removed names for obvious reasons.

1st August 2011:

Hello dears!

Greetings from Ghana, also known as “Africa for Beginners” writing to you from our little house in Adantia, a small rural village 20 minutes away from Sunyani, which in turn is a decent sized town which we are planning to visit this morning to get some provisions and have a look around.

But let’s go by order … our group (made up of 8 – 5 girls and 3 boys) arrived in Ghana last Monday afternoon after spending the night in Cairo in a very nice hotel supplied by Egyptair. Our first laugh occurred when we realised that we were also sharing the hotel with a hundred or so pilgrims on their way to Mecca whose idea of enjoying a buffet is very much akin to that of the noble patrons of Brittania Tours “ejja Guz! Gib iktar hobz ghat triq!!”. Managing to get a plateful meant having to brave a storm of flowing robes, veils, beards, praises to Allah and a hundred hands reaching for the same chicken. Insomma … qisna ir-Riviera Hotel waqt is-Sunday Lunch (change praises to Allah to swearing bil-Mulej and you kind of get the picture!).

Anyway, on Monday we landed in Accra, where we were picked up by Father ********, a Maltese missionary living in Ghana, and driven to Ashaiman at the Salesian compound where we could settle down a little and get our bearings back. The Compound is very sheltered, and hosts a boys’ hostel, a technical school (where boys and girls have the option to learn secretarial, autorepairing, IT and electrical skills), and a Church. The girls’ hostel is a few km away and run by the Salesian nuns tafu intom, ma jmurx ikun hemm ic-cajt bil-lejl. The students leave this school in their mid twenties with some real working skills, which secures them, at the very least, a better life inside the village.

On Wednesday we visited Tema New Town, a fishing slum which also hosts a small Salesian School that prepares children to be integrated into the state system of schooling. We met the children there and played with them, and it was my real taste of what poverty in Africa might look like (but always keeping in mind that in Ghana, things are actually not that bad). Education is extremely valued here, and one can easily understand why… it seems to be the only tiny ray of hope to get a life outside the slums.

On Wednesday evening we left for Wli to see the highest waterfall in Ghana, it was a four hour trip in a tiny van, which also included an incident where the driver admitted that he had absolutely no idea where our hotel was, and so recruited a man from a nearby village to hop on and give him directions. This guide was rewarded by us with an original signed Liverpool T-Shirt and we were really surprised to see that on Thursday evening, on our way back, this man was waiting for us at the village with all his friends to show us that he was wearing his new T-shirt and looking quite smug about it!

On Friday we started our 8 hour journey to Sunyani, in an airconditioned coach showing a hit Ghanaian series called “Evil Soul I II III IV V VI VII” (yes we saw them all), with a hit tune “she’s an evil soul sent from the darkness to sin, she’s an evil soul sent from the darkness to kill and destroy”. We’ve been humming the damn tune ever since.

Nevertheless, our desire to sing was momentarily subdued when we saw the house where we would be living for the following 3 weeks. With hanging cobwebs, hard beds and dirty rooms, it was a sorry sight indeed… but on Saturday we armed ourselves with bleach, dettol and some good will and rendered the place habitable. It’s not easy to live in a rural village in Africa, where the only source of light is one lightbulb (energy and light saving since it makes absolutely no difference in a dark room), and where the only source of water is a communal pump. The locals are having a field day with us, when they see us struggling with actually working a pump which children seem to have mastered before they reach the age of 10. We are the “useless obruni” and the giggles that we hear every time we try to carry our buckets of water to the house seem to increase with every trip Imma x’taghmel … it’s part of the fun!

Yesterday we went to mass in a little chapel in the middle of nowhere where people walk up to 7 km to attend service. As I watched the villagers, donning their best clothes, and praising the lord in spite of their poverty and dire living conditions, I do feel rather humbled, but a little voice in my head also reminds of me of the whole “opium” theory of Marx. It is very clear that the hope of these people rests in the afterlife, since the current one seems to be rather disappointing. Having said that however, I’ve realised that the smiles with which the children greet you while playing in the dirt and muck created by the mixture of mud and animal (?) dung, are wider, brighter and more sincere than in many of the children in the western world who have everything without asking for it. So really, who am I to judge their life when they probably are much happier with the little joys of every day, than I might ever be with my big plans?

Musings over. This week we have to prepare for summer camp that starts on the 8th August with the Ghanaian volunteers, and we also will be visiting some other remote villages to carry out some impromptu lessons and activities with the children. We will be teaching English, Maths and Religion (Alla Maghna!!! ME TEACHING RELIGION? DAWN BIS SERJETA?) and the school day will run from 8.30 till 4 with a 2 hour break. So for those who are doubting … vera ha nkun qed nahdem ta!

Anyway, this email is reaching epistolary proportions, so I will stop here, especially since I have no idea whether I will be able to send this email. As a final note – my hair is braided wiiiiii!!! It’s pulls like hell, but it is so convenient not have to worry about your hair in a scenario where even the most basic hygiene is a luxury! I got it braided in the village, where the hairdressing “salon” is really a bench in the middle of a clearing where turkeys, goats, naked babies, kittens and chickens all live together in one happy chaotic heap! L--aqwa li ta hdejja kienet qed tizbogh xaghra isfar



Over and out. This is Africa!

5th August:

Hello all,

Here is update number 2 :). During this week we settled down in our home in Adantia and also visited other tribes and remote villages to play with the children and organise activities for them. One of the villages we went to was Tainso, which is located about 1hr away from Adantia, but, in the words of Brother ******* “800 years away from civilisation”. Before I go on with describing the village, I guess it is also worth a minute or two of your reading time to describe the various fathers and brothers that are in contact with us from the Salesian community and come to help us and transport us to any required destination :).


Then there is Brother *********, an ******** from ******* whose talents are:

- cycling every day from Dingli to St Julians when stationed in Malta
- having breakfast with Ugo Mifsud Bonnici
- fitting in 8 volunteers, a novice, a dressmaker, a catechist, 2 kids and a dead grasscutter (like a massive rat) in a pickup truck.

Father *********, an ********** from ********* whose talents consist in:

- fitting in 8 volunteers, a novice, 2 catechists, 4 children and a motorcycle on a pick up truck
- speaking in a way that provides great pre-bedtime entertainment in trying to come up with the best impersonation (left or right? Right or left? Where do I go? Oh oh!).

With this bracket over, we can go back to a description of Tainso, which is pretty much what Super Quark and National Geographic show us. People are poor and dirty, kids are under nourished with swollen bellies and big needy eyes. A little toddler took a fancy to me, and wanted to spend the afternoon cuddling and snuggling with me. Since the fancy was mutual (although she really is the most serious little pretty cookie I’ve ever seen) and I felt like cuddles and snuggles myself, I happily obliged and in no time at all she was snoring peacefully away on me :). Rejoice! My maternal instinct was stirred! The end of the world is nigh … The villagers were very amused with our little bond, and I’m half expecting a sealed package with punched holes next Christmas from Ghana!

Adantia and Tainso have no running water, but Tainso does not even have electricity or a mobile network. Yet, strangely enough, many of the villagers have a mobile phone which they charge at a very enterprising guy who set up his own stall, with a large battery and a crooked smile. I guess business must be quite good!

Another fun fact of Ghana is the names given to the various “shops” (stalls or rickety huts) that are set up all over the place, like roundabouts for example, where “God is Beauty Hair Salon” is set up next “God’s Time is My Time Electrical Repairer”. The Ghanaians are very Christian, and these kind of names are seen everywhere. It is quite amusing really, although if we had to board a taxi with a large “God Forgive me!” written on the back, we would have had to admit a certain nervousness :).

Anyway, back on track… after the days spent in the tribes, today was allocated towards lesson preparation for the summer camp. I’ve been assigned to teach English in Primary 3, and to assist in Maths and Religious and Moral Education (which works brilliantly for me, since I’m not very confident in right angled triangles and the glory of the afterlife). However, my attention was caught by a pumping party which was going on in the village and we decided to explore, only to find out that it was a funeral in pure Ghanaian style … everyone dressed in black and red and partying like there is no tomorrow in the Sunglasses At Night kind of way! Quite fascinating really, especially since according to our calculations, this party lasted more than 6 hours…

But as everyone says here, this is Africa. And it is beautiful.


Hugs and love xxxxxx


9th August:

Hello dears,

It’s 7am here in Ghana and we just woke up to prepare the lessons for the children. To all those who think that we seem to be late planners, we have an excuse! Until yesterday we had no real idea what the level of knowledge of the kids is, and also last night, instead of preparing resources, we were invited by the bishop for a visit at his home. The bastard has running water of course. Enough said. The bishop also gave us a very interesting description of traditional Ghanaian culture and explained that the society in the rural villages is a matriarchal one, which is a polite term for saying that Ghanaian men do jacksh*t. The males have no say in anything, but it’s fair enough since they really don’t do much. Children are brought up by their mothers and the brothers of their mothers (ma tantx rajt zijiet ihabblu ghajnhom imma to be honest), and the men spend the looking helplessly around.

Niiiiice.

Anyway, since the last time I wrote to you we met up with a group of Italian volunteers (who live in the community house in Sunyani so ….Altogether now … they have running water! :D … qed tkiddni wisq din lol). They’re very nice, apart from the fact that they are from Turin and therefore are bianconeri nel cuore. I was very quick in setting the record straight of where my loyalties lie :). On Saturday evening we went to a club with them, stile Havana, but fun! We asked them to visit us so that we can show them how eight of us can live in a house of 50m2 while also sharing the space with a little mouse which seemed to have taken a fancy to our biscuits :). We also had a little visit by a scorpion, which we were all fascinated by. When we told Don *********** about it (special contributive factor to our adventure: being 2m tall and weiging 45 kilos!) he was shocked and hoped that we had killed it. Of course we hadn’t. One of us had even stuck a camera to it with a bright flash.

…

Anyhoo, as I said, real lessons started yesterday, and I’m teaching Primary 3 kids whose names range from Okyege to Prince, Comfort, Rejoice and Patience. The kids seem to be all very sweet although there is a girl in an upper class who definitely seems to need to have her face remodelled by the sole of my muddy shoes (and that is why teaching is not my vocation :P). The lesson plan for today is nouns and plurals …. Fingers crossed :). The afternoon is characterised by group games for the children who are divided into “houses” and get points like in Sports Day. Tifo da stadio sans vuvuzela (at least!).

One of us was injured during these games, and spent a few hours at a private doctor, but on the whole, we are surviving relatively unscathed!

On a funny note, the ******* priest, Father *****, has turned up to the summer camp dressed as a saintly Indiana Jones, with a side satchel with the face of Don Bosco printed on it, a shirt with Mary Help of Christians printed on it, and a female hat. We have all decided that he should be turned into a keychain and brought back to Malta. His other talent is also of placing “full stops” in his sentences in the wrong place, so his sermons sound something like this:

“It is important [full stop] for the CHILDREN [shouted] to eat[full stop] BREAKFAST! Insomma you get the idea. :)

That’s it for today … on a final note, I’m looking forward to this weekend, where we’re going to visit a lake about 4hrs away from here. Ha mmur lesta bix-shampoo ha nahsel xaghri u noqtol xi zewg eco systems!!! :).

Miss you all and see you in 2 weeks! Xxxxx

13th August

Dear all,

It’s update 4 at the beginning of week 4 of my stay in Ghana. This last week has gone by in a flash, summer camp has begun in full swing! We leave our “house” and mousey housemate at 8am, to welcome the children and prepare them for assembly. Lessons start at 9 and continue until 12. After that, games at 14.00 until 16.30, followed by evaluation till 17.00. This past week I put in all my dedication, effort, enthusiasm and professionalism into the teaching of plurals with not extremely satisfactory results “1 cat, 2 catses! 1 man, 2 manses! 1 bench, 2 benchs! Which letters are the same between MAN and woman? Madame madame!! Yes, Agjemang? U!!!!!”. Sigh. Tomorrow I’m going to give them a little test and if they get them wrong, flip it, they have lived their lives without plurals so far, they will manage perfectly well for the next 50 years or so! Having, said that however, I do have my own little teacher’s pet in the classroom, a cute little boy called Prince who sits on the front bench, raises his hand constantly and provides some satisfaction to my short academic life :). When he grows up and becomes a Professor of Everything, I hope he will remember the white girl who taught him that words with a “ch” sound take an “es” as plural. :)

Summer camp also means that we have our very own “Mary Help of Christians” polo-shirt, printed by a very enterprising young woman called ******* whose marketing skills ar of a particularly persuasive nature … in the words of Don ****** “she talks and talks and out of desperation you buy”. E cosi e’ stato!

As I said, this week was quite full, and it also included dancing the waka waka during afternoon assembly, and buying three live chickens for us to kill and cook for dinner. When I say “us”, I actually mean the boys, and when I say boys I actually mean, 2 boys and a third one excitedly taking pictures and extracting “unlaid” eggs to the nauseated disgust of the girls. One of the boys (training to be a doctor) informed me that apparently a chicken has 4 *medicalgibberish* chambers in its heart like human beings. I’m sure it’s important info … I guess I should google it and store it for future reference!

On a positive note however, the chickens were carved with surgical precision. Mater Dei is in safe hands!

Anyhoo, the most exciting part of the week was the arrival of Don ***** with a tub of nutella! After much screaming, jumping, hugging and mass hysteria, 1 auditor, 2 accountants, 1 teacher, 1 assistant head, 1 doctor to be and a project manager (tal-OWPIEMMMM) were happily digging fingers and spoons in the tub without a shred of dignity. Breakfast is now pane e nutella (come la nazionale italiana di calcio!), and the world is a better place!

This past week I was also involved in a demonstration for the “Promotion of Religion, Science and Technology for a Better Economy”. In my not so humble opinion, this country seems to be very much sorted in terms of religion - “God is the head Carpentry Shop” and “God’s Style is the Best Boutique” – but would do no harm in investing a little bit more in Science and Technology, tafu intom, maybe trying to find a way to make the mud houses last more than three years. Incidentally, I think I seem to have arrived in Ghana in the third year of the houses’ existence ghax kollox qisu ha jaqa. Imma whatever rocks their boat after all :).

This weekend we booked a van (the driver’s religious affiliation seemed to have been towards Chelsea FC) and went to the Lake Bosuntswe, a beautiful lake caused by a falling meteor (thaaaaaaanks meteor!!!) where we swam, and ate and slept and WASHED and had a lovely break :). My hair shines and I’m squeaky clean, but I’m still looking forward to my first week in Malta where I will take care of fixing myself with various hairdresser, beautician and spa appointments. I haven’t looked this ugly since puberty!!! :).

Anyway dears, I’m not sure whether this will be my last update until I’m back … probably it will not be since I’m not receiving any of your smses :(. I’m not sure what’s wrong, unless you all decided to give me the silent treatment at the same time and stop answering my smses, but I am kind of hoping that this is not the case :). I will try and write a final email before embarking on the long journey home starting from Thursday night to Ashaiman, Saturday morning to Cairo, and Sunday morning to Malta. I will see most of you on Sunday evening and on Monday (waaaaaaaaa work!) so until then, I wish you all a great, fruitful and summery week!

Missing you all! Xxx

I did not manage to write another email after this one, I celebrated my 29th birthday three days later with an amazing surprise party and cake. I wept and laughed at the same time like never before, and made my way back home a few days later and lived a year after that to tell the tale :). I also stared at the washing machine for half an hour on the day of my return, and loved it with a passion that I have yet to feel again. Just saying.

Hope you enjoyed a glimpse of my experience in Africa before I became Gracie and started rambling about nonsense :).

Hugs and smiles

Gracie :)

Gracie goes to England (and gets 3000 hits!)

Curiouser and curiouser. TomKat are splitting up, Adele is knocked up, Balotelli managed to impregnate his ex girlfriend who somehow wants to be with him after he cheated on her with any two [long] legs that carried a uterus who happened to crossed his path.

And curiousest of them all, my blog has reached 3000 hits!! Now, for a blog that is updated sporadically and mostly deals with certified nonsense, that is a real satisfaction ... so thank you! If you happen to see me around, come up and speak to me about it. I might offer you a diet coke, if it's a good financial day. In all probability however, it won't be, so you might just get a toothy grin (I have about 30000 teeth) and a hand shake.

Anyhooooo ... all the above happened in the last few days where I was away from the island so I'm hazy on the details, and not that bothered. So that's just about all you're going to hear about it. What you WILL be hearing about however, is the lovely three days I spent in the company of old friends who(m? dammit) I haven't seen in too long, and who I have actually really missed.

I was in the UK for the weekend, attending the wedding of a close friend and the ridiculously awesome guy she just married. Honestly, she married a dude whose wedding speech was based on a comparison between their love and Brazil nuts... and it was the sweetest thing I've ever heard. A true keeper, and I cannot be happier for the two of them. It was also the first civil ceremony I had ever attended, and I was moved beyond words, in a way which the pompous traditionalism which stifles our weddings never ever affected me. Just the way the couple looked and clung to each other, and the soothing lilt of the Indian (2nd generation?) woman who wed them warmed my heart more than any sermon and bombastic choirs could ever do.

This trip was not only made special by this wedding, but also by the little moments that filled my heart with joy and peace in a way I did not really believe was so much possible (I had quite a rage filled, angsty first half of year FYI) anymore - random laughter while reenacting CSI Miami (good old Horatio) at Kings Cross Station, the haunting beauty of Pachelbel's Canon played by a string quartet at Covent Garden, the shared looks and shy smiles with the young, serious man who was spending a late Sunday morning with his grandfather in a tiny cafe in St Albans, and sitting at my window in a tiny inn while drinking tea and watching the rain fall.

Holy cow. I seem to have lost my edge.

Well, the one major thing I realised though in these past days is that even though I relish the feeling of anonymity in a big city ("where no one knows my naaaaaaaaaame" is what I sing/screech along in my car on a daily basis after all), I also loved the village feeling of politeness and neighbourly care in St Albans. So it seems that whether I am one comfortably ignored and ignoring in a London subway, happy in the fact that no one CARES, or whether I am walking in a market in a little town being called "darlin'" by a random stranger, I can actually manage to be completely at ease and satisfied with my lot. Charles Dickens v Jane Austen = a complete draw.

Which means, that I'm a more adjusted, well put together sort of person than I give myself credit for. So, probably, if I try and pull myself together, and give getting along with people a better shot, I might actually once again enjoy being around my fellow islanders on this small bit of rock.

Of course, do not expect miracles. If you happen to be in my life, and you generally suck, then we're not going to get along. Just deal with it.

Serving you all a cuppa full of hugs,

Gracie xx

Writing your own novel - Gracie's guidance notes

There is no denying the inevitable fact that I will be thirty in less than two months time. Now, if that were not traumatizing enough (and believe me, the way I'm hanging on to the last few weeks of being in my twenties is pathetic), it is also scary in the way it reminds me of all the things that I had set up myself to do before reaching the big Three-OH!and which, sadly did not.

I have already spoken about my wish list in an earlier blog, so won't go into all the details again, but there is one particular failed mission that is really quite disappointing. I have to face the harsh reality that the novel I had planned to write before my thirtieth birthday is not only not quite finished, but not even quite started. And by "quite started" I mean not started, at all, not even close. And by that I mean, I haven't, in the words of Phoebe Buffay, even written the page numbers yet. Having said that, not writing my own novel gave me the time to read extensively the works of other people throughout my life (and for those who are asking why I didn't spend the time writing instead of reading - well geniuses, it's easier to let yourself get entertained by other people's writing than to write you own. Not really Physics Advanced as a concept now, is it?)

Anyhooooo, reading all sorts of books from all sorts of authors made me realise that there are a number of ways to actually approach the writing of a novel, which I will try to portray here, as a sort of "Writing for Dummies - Choose Your Style to Make it Big!" guidebook. Once I actually choose what style works best for me ... you'll get to know. So ... here goes:

Austen/Dickens Style

This is the approach of writing specifically about what you know and see around you. Whether it is young marriagable women who spend their days embroidering or going to balls, or whether it is hungry, miserable orphans starving in the streets of London, Jane Austen and Charles Dickens made it big by faithfully reproducing the world around them, and writing about something that the readers at the time could totally relate to. In all fairness, it does help that readers of our time don't mind being unable to relate to their world, and that someone, somewhere decided that their works are classics and should be read and reread hundreds of years later.

If I had to take this approach, and seeing the lameness of my current life, I would base my novel on the daily adventures of a target and deadline driven government department from the point of view of a printer. I would call it Paper Jam. A real, edge-of-your-seat page turner. True story.

Ken Follett Style

This style is based on pure, thorough, detailed and exhausting research. Basically you either need to be as rich as whatevers from the get-go, or else you would have already made it big enough from the Austen/Dickens approach in order to have the money and time to actually spend years researching the trenches of World War I, or the architectural style of Medieval England. There is no way you can write something as gloriously beautiful as Pillars of the Earth without having anything else to do except research about it in some dumpy university library somewhere in England.

For the rest of us who work 45+ hours per week .... refer to the Approach 1. For those who have the time and the money ... do some research on the Great Siege like David Ball did in the Sword and The Scimitar. Fantastic read and welcomed smuttiness between a Knight and a Maltese damsel. Highly recommended, even by Tom Hanks on Twitter (I just KNOW).

Dan Brown/Michael Crichton Style

Write about nonsense, but make it sound real, and include a cliffhanger in every page. Then get Tom Hanks (hahaha mentionitis today) to play Robert Langdon in the movie version of your books. You'll get millions. And then you can go all Ken Follett on us and write something amazing.






Stephenie Meyers/Suzanne Collins Style

Now, this needs a multi-step approach, because let's face it, you need to write a saga that enthralls the Facebook generation, so you need to keep the teenagers happy, and the non-teenagers (like me v_v) so hooked to actually not be embarrassed to admit it. So, what you need to include in your swoony sagas is the following:

a. An obnoxious but still relatable heroine: Bella Swan is a complete disaster from Book 1, Katniss Everdeen is awesome until Book 3. However, the more annoying is the heroine, the more hope you give young girls that even if SHE can get the boy in the end, there is hope for the rest of us, who are more adjusted and who do not fall in love with vampires or have to fight to death in a televised arena.

b. A perfect hero: whether it is a vampire who refuses to drink human blood, or a baker's son whose aim in life is to sacrifice himself so that the heroine can make it alive from the abovementioned arena, you need to create a symbol of perfection that girls believe could actually exist. It of course helps if in the movie version the guys cast to play the role have a jawline that was friggin CHISELED BY ANGELS. *age-inappropriate swoon*


c. The useless other (hot) guy: I'm not sure why these guys are always included in such sagas. Meyers gave us Vampire v Werewolf, Collins came up with the Baker v Hunter and in both cases, the triangle added nothing but unnecessary angst to an already angsty book. It is obvious from Book 1 that these hotties will never get the girl, so I guess the only reason to put them there is to get the tweens to have two posters stuck to their wall, rather than one. But again, that somehow seems to get you millions, and bring a couple of boring actors (the love antagonists are always boring) to stardom, so I guess it's a win-win situation for some.

NB: An extremely important point to keep in mind in writing these Young Adult sagas is to take good care of the names you give your protagonists. In the age of Brangelina and TomKat, I think Suzanne Collins should have been a bit more careful when naming the Hero Peeta and the Heroine Katniss. Some more care would have avoided the actors the embarrassment of standing behind signs that said "I LOVE PEENISS". Just saying.




There are other styles of course, and I just skimmed the most obvious perhaps, but I admit that I cannot even try to understand how J.K. Rowling could have possibly created the perfect world within Harry Potter, where a school of wizards could take our world by storm. I also did not mention Tolkien's Lord of the Rings saga, because well, that is pretty simple: write about a mystical world and leave out the love element. This will ensure that that part of the human population that was born with a uterus would avoid it like the plague. Boring!

So, to all aspiring writers out there ... don't procrastinate like me ... but just write! Then, send me your books, and I will read them. And dissect them to pieces, in true Gracie style.

Love and read!

Grace xxx

It's time for Daddy!

It's Father's Day! Consequently, I think that there is no better occasion to introduce the other half of my genetic structure, the man who is 50% responsible for the creation of me, and thus a very generous contributor to all the quirks, eccentricities and general set-up that characterize yours truly. You have already read all about my my mum here. Now it's time for daddy!



First things first, my dad gave me olive skin that tans so fantastically that I can't help being smug about it from between late May and late October. It is also the kind of skin that was never pimply during my teenage years, which at least allowed me to worry about other angsty adolescent stuff, and be a general tearful, moody and sullen pain in the arse without having to fill the bathroom with Clearasil and Zit removers. I also inherited my nose from my dad (which frankly, I really really wish he would have refrained from giving me, especially since my mother's was just so dainty), his sleeping habits - i.e. erratic sleep patterns and insomnia (thanks again dad!), love for books (I'm infinitely grateful!), the love for travel and the general desire to look beyond the cliffs and to stop believing that this tiny rock is the centre of the universe. For this last thing especially, thanks Dad!

My dad also taught me a good deal of sarcasm (though the student's capacity has now definitely surpassed that of the mentor, as our daily conversations clearly show), a limited knowledge of English grammar usage and other useless stuff, and the strict belief that "Do It Yourself" should be left to ... others, especially since they would do everything so much better than yourself. I can safely say that my dad and I would react to a post nuclear apocalypse by attempting to rebuild the world from radioactive ashes by passing caustic comments at it. We are that useless, but kinda awesome in that way. However, where my dad fails with the hammer and the driller, he excels in the knowledge of the irrelevant, by spouting WTF trivia during dinner, or knowing the difference between "while" and "whilst", and knowing when to use "who" instead of "whom". Although let's face it, the latter just has to be the fourth secret of Fatima.



When it comes to Football (and only that), my Dad puts his foot down, and looms large as the Master of the house. There is only one team, and that is Inter Milan. Other teams should not be mentioned, supporters of such other secondary clubs should be avoided or just grudgingly humoured. Slight respect may only be shown to Real Madrid and Barcelona FC, but that is to be limited to games where said teams are playing against the second team of Milan (unmentionables) and that team from Turin who(m?) one should not even acknowledge. This knowledge is deeply ingrained in me Dad, thank you for that. Will not disappoint you on this one.

Thank you Daddy, for your teachings, your sharing of values, your jokes and for generally putting up with me. Thank you for supporting all my decisions, even if there are some you probably don't agree with. Thank you for bringing me up in a way that has allowed me to make my own choices without actually feeling the need to discuss them with you, other than to announce them once they're a fait accompli. Thanks for making me the person that messes up decisions, but then fixes them herself. I know that it does not sound exactly like a good thing, but I think that actually living my own life for the past years without having to check with you is probably the best compliment I could possibly give you. I am what I am thanks to you.




Love you loads Daddy! You get to read it here, so treasure it, because all you'll get from me today will be the usual treatment :P. Oh, and please do act surprised at your present!

Kisses,

Gracie xxxx


PS Happy Father's Day also to all those sweet, hot daddies who always make my trip to the Supermarket so much more pleasant!!!!

Random Gracieness

I was asked, by some of the people who regularly follow my blog (scarily loyal and amazing people I believe) why I did not dissect, limb by limb, moonwalk by moonwalk, note by note, last week’s Eurovision song contest. Those who know me personally know the whole story, those who don’t ... well let’s just say that you need to know that blood is thicker than sarcasm. So no ... all eurobashing will have to wait until next year ;).

This made me realise just how much I actually missed make some good, harmless and innocent fun of other people, and how really enjoyable that is. So today, I’m just going to allow you all that opportunity by asking you to join me in some good natured and jovial laughing at myself. Yes, that’s it ... today I’m going to give you all the ammo and fodder you need to poke all the fun you want at me next time you meet me. Just make sure, that if you’re a good looking bloke, you don’t have a beautiful woman with legs up to my neck hanging from your arms. That makes me insecure... and an insecure Gracie is no fun to be around, especially if she decides to wallow in a corner drinking diet coke.

Anyway, here goes. These are the random facts about me that should provide you with some conversation ice-breakers and an entertaining half an hour at my own expense :D:

United Nations

I love the United Nations, I follow what it does and I’m one of its biggest fans. This is not really because it has served as a guarantor (for the time being) against a new World War, because let’s face it, all it takes is for Mr Barack Obama (Mr Obama!!! Mr Obama!!!! – that’s my best Berlusconi impersonation yet) and Mr Ahmedinwhatyoucallhimfromiran to wake up in a grumpy mood, and bham, there we go again with ze nuclears. My love for the United Nations is not even wholly due to the amazing names of its Secretary Generals – does anyone remember Boutros Boutros Ghali??? I mean ... how awesome is that? “Oh I am sooo pleased to meet you, my name is Gracie Gracie Fancysurname. Enchanted, truly!” No actually, I love the United Nations because the first time I ate sushi EVER in my life was in their canteen in Vienna. Random mentions of sushi this week made me remember this fact, and it does bring extremely good memories of a trip there back in 2003. Good times.

Barcelona

I love Barcelona. Everyone who knows me in the slightest heard that, on multiple occasions. What might not be totally general knowledge is that I slept in a military tent on a beach in Barcelona for a week in August of 2004 and I was woken up every morning by this song. Strange times ... and the pulled muscle from the hard bunkbeds remained painful until the following April. Fantastic!

Shopping

I shop at www.boohoo.com. It’s girly, flowery and cheap, which should be a good indication to NOT go on and on about famous and expensive fashion brands that I cannot afford. That makes me grumpy. I also glaze when you mention shoes, but I love handbags. I love Furla, but I don’t own anything of the brand. Can’t afford it either.

F*** my life. On incidentally, this reminds of an amazing website http://www.fmylife.com/ I discovered while volunteering in Ghana. Don’t judge me, there was a mouse in the kitchen and no running water. So there.

Future family plans

I want daughters and I have a Blackberry application to prove it (and assist me). Future husband (or husbands, because really – who am I kidding? Monogamy with the bitch from hell??) are not allowed to formulate an opinion on the matter, and is expected to think pink. And fluffy. Now that we’re on topic, where the HELL is my future husband? Hmmm … oh right. He’s in Milan, coaching Inter Fc, sporting a chin dimple *swoon* and not thinking pink. Or fluffy.

Right…

Music

I love songs that make me cry and are not too mainstream. But I also need to come out of my musical superiority closet and admit that yes, I also love Taylor Swift. It took me a long time to come to terms with it, but there are only so many times that one can find oneself singing “I hear the preacher say speak now or forever hold your pee eee eee ace!” or “keep your feet reaaaaady, heart beat steaaaady, kee eeep your eyes oooopen” without knowing there is really some Swift love going on. And I know that it doesn’t help that when I sing I sound like Katy Perry, KeSha and Lana Del Rey all rolled into one … without autotune. However, rest assured that I do draw the line at Justin Bieber though, no matter how many times he sensually wonders what it would be like to be my boyfriend. And no amount of improbable chest hair growth would ever convince me otherwise.

Ok, so that was a little taste of Gracie quirks to set you going next time you meet me. I don’t really drink, but a glass of 35 South would ensure other stories to surface. Until then, keep tuned!

Quirky and steaaaaaaady love,

Gracie :)

Straight but not narrow

A dear friend of mine, much loved and much admired (by me and all who know him) brought the video below to my attention some days ago, and I was truly touched to the core, both by the story shown therein, but even more by his reaction to it - the hurt at being hit "too close to home" and the actual fear that this might happen to him and his partner.

Unfortunately, I couldn't share his feelings towards his video as much as I would have wanted to, because in reality, this is a situation that I am lucky enough to be able to avoid, because I was born in the comfortable normality of the socially accepted side of sexuality. I am straight, so my love for my partner will be never frowned upon, discriminated against, and ignored by both family and the legal and political structures.

Because I see the above as an obvious state of fact, I still can't understand why a discussion on gay marriage/union/whathaveyou still subsists. What on earth is there to discuss? In a world where every kind of hatred is somehow justified, where war is fought in the name of a supernatural deity, I can't understand why there is a still a vociferous majority that refuses to believe that there are many forms of love that can exist, and that two consenting adults may choose to love whoever they please, because really ... how is that love affecting the rest of us?

I refuse to accept people pontificating at me, so I will not pontificate myself and stop here. However, I would just like to say that it's ok to be straight, it's ok to be gay but it is even better not to be narrow.

And while we're discussing this, let me just add that it is also ok to be black, white, green, red or blue. The most important is that while we're at it, we never forget to breathe and live the incandescent beauty of the various shades of grey.

So please watch this video ... and also visit this site: http://www.wearesbnn.com/. You will see that with this kind of thinking, you are in very good company.

Gracie's Back!

The fingers twitch and the keyboard responds. Gracie is slowly coming back to narrate the chronicles of nothing that used to fill this blog on a semi regular basis until the inspiration dried up, and the random events in her life stopped coming with the silver lining of irony that used to make her laugh at herself and want to share the joke.

Oooh. Deepness.

Ok ... so this is what really happened. Well basically, for the last few months, some stuff happened that made everything just a little bit harder to deal with, where sleepless nights dredged on to dreary days, and the will to share was stifled. This was due to events and circumstances that fall under my self-imposed list of censorship and that thus could not be blogged about and so, needless to point out, this blog was all but abandoned since my last post.

In the meantime, I embarked on my own very personal mission to get back on track, tellingly entitled Operation Middle Finger (I leave the reason behind the choice of name up to your own intuition), and made sure to love and support myself in all the ways I could think of. I started exercising and lost some weight. Actually my clothes seem to indicate that I lost some weight - the bathroom scales are stubbornly refusing to budge more than the bare minimum with SoBness that is comparable only to that of another inanimate object in my house, namely the printer, who always used to refuse to work on the day of a deadline to hand in an assignment, or a report, or my thesis. The ugly death the printer had to face should be an indication to the bathroom scales really, but anyhoo, as always, I digress.

Besides the forced exercise (not fun! not fun at all!), I've watched reruns of Friends and rediscovered my love for Chandler Bing, dreamt of anonymity in New York while practising it in Valletta, sang to Kelly Clarkson's "What doesn't kill you" and Augustana's "Boston" too loud and too often and beat my personal record by reading three books in 4.5 days.

On this last topic allow me to publicly thank Suzanne Collins for creating the most lovable and selfless character in the history of modern English literature. Anyone who's read the Hunger Games Trilogy and discovered Peeta Mellark (even if not in 4.5 days) will know what I'm talking about. I sometimes wish I were sixteen again so that I could shamelessly declare myself to be in "Team Peeta!", but being twenty-nine, I will keep it much more dignified, and just say that this young hero is extremely well written, and just the slightest of swoony. And he is not a vampire that sparkles in the sunlight, so really, he is just awesome without visual assistance. Right ... I'm feeling myself going teenage again so stopping right here. If I had to compare teenage angst with the late twenties counterpart, I'd rather pick the latter - at least at my age you're done with your O and A levels and you can pretend to be gainfully employed.

Unfortunately, Operation Middle Finger also entailed an increased range of sarcasm and some unnecessary and uncalled for sniping, which led me to realise that I really must have the most patient friends in the world. Public apologies to those who were on the receiving end of the Full Package of Sarcasm 2.0. Had no idea that it came with so many unattractive features - it's admittedly a blast to use though.

Finally, in these past months I also realised that the mountain that refuses to come to Mohammad is also refusing to come to me, so I decided that I should just walk to it myself by taking a plunge, or two (or three and four) and face some long overdue decisions should such mountain profess the need for them.

Shiny crap ... I'm going all metaphorical and obscure today, which is probably not the best way to get you back to reading this blog, but do try to bear with me and stick it out. As I said, Gracie is slowly coming back. Give her some time and patience.

Operation Middle Finger continues! But in the meantime ... I have some laundry to sort out.

Love,

Gracie

2000 hits!

Thank you :)

The Aurora Borealis and the Chronicles of Dreams

All those who know me personally are well aware that I'm not exactly a "sports" person. In fact, my idea of enjoying sports is that of letting other people do it, while I react accordingly with enthusiasm or otherwise. Even though in the past few weeks I did embrace a more active lifestyle, and I'm already feeling so much better for it, my reaction to invitations for "fun runs" is still that of incredulity ("how can a run be fun??!!") and the idea of running a marathon, i.e. running for hours for no particular reason, is still unfathomable. Needless to say, my involvement in last Sunday's marathon was that of wishing my friends well, and checking out their pictures on Facebook on Sunday late morning while still in my pigiamas and sipping green tea. It was at that moment however, that a picture out of the many did catch my eye, and since then, I just cannot get it out of my mind.

This picture showed a person I know and really admire crossing the finish line, and the look of pure, unalderated joy on her face was truly amazing. It was an expression that I have never seen before, certainly not in the mirror, and it made me realise that THAT is the look of someone who has just achieved her dream through hard work, constant effort and a mulish stubbornness to keep going. I suspect that my driving instructor did have an expression slightly similar to that (albeit mixed with incredulity) when I passed my driving test, but I was too surprised myself to actually check it out, so I cannot really be sure. Also, as an aside, the person who teaches you how to drive is the Instructor and not "The Learner", and if I hear a sentence sounding remotely like this "Hadt l-ingejc u poggejt brajs it-tifla tal-lerner", I will not be held responsible for my actions.

Anyway, the point I am trying to make is that this picture brought to my mind my many childhood and adolescent dreams and caused me to carry out a little soul searching exercise into my past, which led me to come up with the following Checklist of Past and Current Dreams:

1. Marry Prince William and become Duchess of Cambridge. Well, in all fairness, at the time when I actually wanted this, the idea was to become a "Princess" since I had no idea of the intricacies of the British Allocation of Titles Structure. It can now be safely assumed that this dream has become moot following William's marriage to Kate last year but I'm not worried. There is still Harry after all, and after reading and *cough*streaming*cough* The Pillars of the Earth, I've discovered the surprisingly endearing charm of redheads. In fact, Ken Follett, with his Jack Builder, achieved what J.K. Rowling did not with Ron Weasley - he created a red-headed hero that kicked ass.

2. Learn how to play the Cello. Not achieved. Not even in the slightest. I can play chopsticks on the piano though, and the office playlist I have put together is what is keeping the country going. Joking of course! Kind of.

3. Become a lawyer. I did manage that, even though I still don't know how. Passed through all my exams, wrote a thesis (can't really remember what it was about and the conclusions I reached) and somehow got my warrant. The problem is that halfway through all this effort, I realised that I didn't want to be a lawyer after all, and would have been so much happier studying English, reading books and writing about them. That is what you get when you base your career prospects on a "Few Good Men".

4. See the Aurora Borealis. Not achieved. Not even close. However, this.has.to.happen.someday. Soon. Who is coming with me?? I'm actually a great travel companion, as long as you don't propose to go shopping - if you do I'd kick you back to Sliema or Valletta where you can do all your shopping and not waste more of my precious "abroad" time. You have been warned.

5. Embrace Buddhism in a temple in Bali and achieve inner peace. What I achieved so far is the talent to sit at my desk and listen to nonsense with a half smile while imagining myself bashing the brains of the speaker with a baseball bat. The only telltale signs of the mental demise of the other party in the conversation is usually the fact that I start typing at the speed of light, and increase the rapidity of my blinking. The latter action should not, of course, be confused with the fluttering of my eyelashes, since that is reserved only to a situation where you're a good looking, intelligent and funny bloke and I actually like the look of you. It is thus very difficult to be "fluttered" at by me, so never assume that it is happening. Many times I'm just mentally beating the crap out of you.

6. Watch Inter play against Milan at Sansiro. I am determined to make this happen soon, but at the moment all I have achieved is seeing Sliema play against Valletta at Ta Qali. It was actually great fun, especially when hearing my friend screaming "you need to pass to the Blue Kit and not to the White one!", since due to the fact that we were a grand total of 20 people on the Sliema side, I'm pretty sure the Sliema players were hearing these very helpful hints. To be honest, however, I was more intrigued by a man with a suitcase moving randomly round the ground, but what the hell, Up the Blues!!

7. Write a novel. So far I achieved aka-gracie.blogspot.com, which I'm pretty psyched about actually. (thanks for reading! 2000 hits soon!!) All I need now is a plot, time for research, money and a publisher and Chronicles of Nothing will then become part of your bookshelves or kindles :).

The above list shows some of the many dreams that make up my life. Some of them will never be achieved, others will. I'm not sure whether any of these dreams can ever create on my face the expression I saw on the photo last Sunday, but I guess it's worth a try. Alternatively, I might just have to start training for the marathon myself, and get back to you all with an update this time next year!

Wishing you all a week of achieved ambitions,

Gracie xx

A rose without thorns.

I would like to apologise for not keeping this blog updated as much as I should have, and to thank those who actually keep on turning up for a peak to see whether yours crazy truly had anything to share with the world. I haven't really been inspired in the past two weeks; it seems that I might perhaps have temporarily run out of my sarcastic stream, and have turned, inexplicably, human. I'm not too pleased about that, and discussions with inner-self are ongoing to try and regain the sharp corners that seem to have been knocked off from me by circumstances beyond my control.

Today's post will in fact not be of the usual kind of piss-take, and for once this blog will not be a Chronicle of Nothing, but of Something, Someone in fact who is really Everything, and who in my eyes, will always remain so.

It's my mother's birthday today, and she would, or actually SHOULD, have been 59 had the world been an ideal place where good people live to a ripe old age in happiness and not lose battles against an arbitrary, engulfing evil that destroys everything in its wake. However, as we all know, the world is not ideal, and for the past nine years, it has been rendered even more flawed by the loss of an amazing mother and a truly beautiful human being. On a personal level, her loss for me meant that she did not see me graduate, she did not share the excitement of my first job interviews and my first day at work. She could not react to all my impulsive decisions, like leaving for Brussels, changing profession, buying a flat (collective face-palm in the HSBC home-loan department is still ongoing, four years on), going to Africa... and could not witness the changes that each decision brought to my life and personality and my ensuring stubborn, head-first reaction to the consequences. She missed the joy and laughter brought about by new friends and loved ones, and the tears, so so many of them, brought by those whose sole aim in my life was to wreak havoc and leave behind shattered pieces. She missed my spiritual moments, and my continuously resurfacing atheist ones.

I miss all the things I had with her, and things I could have had, but was denied. I miss the drives and the singing in the car (a habit which I sub-consciously kept, as a solo act, to the dismay of fellow drivers stuck parallel to me at traffic lights), the morning hugs, listening to the stories she used to bring from the the kindergarten she worked in, the long blond hair, the blue eyes that mirror my own, and the nose which I so would have liked to have, but which I unfortunately did not inherit. Most of all I miss the opportunity to be able to learn more from her and to become the woman, that for a period that was unfairly too short, she was.

Happy Birthday Mum, I miss you and love you. Today. Everyday and Always. And since my atheist moments are still of a sporadic nature, I pray that one day I will also be blessed with a daughter to name after you, to love and cherish her, and who will perhaps one day love me as much I love you.

The Other Side of Valentine's ....

Valentine's Day is approaching, and love is supposedly, and presumably for others, in the air. While the couples bask in each other's love and happily ever afters, the dark side of the moon is inhabited by the rest of us, which I refer to as the Minus Ones. Being a Minus One can actually be great, but there is a 50% chance that it is a status that was not the direct result of your decision, but rather the decision of your former Plus One, which let's face it, is as painful as hell. By digging through my old diaries (I was always a meticulous record keeper), I've actually discovered that there seemed to be quite a pattern in my post breakup reactions, which I divided into 5 stages that can span over months (in my teenage years and early twenties, I used to be invariably dumped in June, just before the onslaught of the Nordic EFL students, and therefore my post breakup mourning period took the whole summer), weeks, or whatever time it takes.

I have of course adapted these stages to cater for people my age, and since I can only write about what I know, I have focused mainly on the female perspective since

a. I'm not sure whether men actually suffer from being dumped;
b. I assume that any possible slight discomfort felt by men at the end of a relationship is pretty much taken care of by a beer, the separate or combined efforts of Inter, Milan, Juve, Man Utd, Liverpool and Chelsea together with the discovery of novel, unchartered and unexplored boobs.

I would like to specify that I [hope to] stand corrected, so please dear guys, go ahead and ... correct me.

Anyhoo, what I'm going to try and do today is go through a typical break-up/rejection, based on my own experiences, and on that of my closest friends. The specifics may not apply to everyone, but more or less, I tend to think that we're there:

The Nth Day - Armageddon.

You've just had the talk ("it's not you, it's me!"). The pain in your chest is similar to a stab wound that has shattered your heart in a thousand shards that pierce every internal organ every time you breathe. That is pretty much what happened...so cry. And when I say cry, I don't mean let an elegant, dainty tear roll down your cheeks; I mean sob loudly and wail like there is no tomorrow. Because, actually, there isn't, or at least not the tomorrow that you expected it to be. Also, OF COURSE, it is YOU and not him who is the problem, so take a deep breath and cry your heart out and turn your face into a puffy snotty structure made of goo. You are, of course not good enough for him, you suck and you deserve all the pain you're going through just because you couldn't keep him with you.

While you're at it, put Adele and some suicidal Coldplay (pre-Gwyneth Paltrow era)on a constant loop and send out a text to your friends informing them that you have been dumped, but that you don't want to talk about it. This is not the time to hear that there are plenty fish in the sea, that it is his loss and not yours, and that he is an ugly selfish bastard. You don't want any other fish, you're the one crying while he's comfortably chilled watching TV, and the ugly selfish bastard is actually who you want to be with.

Cry a bit more. And sleep.

N + 1 - Damn Allergies.

Wake up in the morning with swollen eyes that do not open more than slits and pray for the early onset of a mild flu that will allow you to stay home and cry. People with adequately developed immune systems are inevitably screwed. Check for pain in throat, head and ears, discover that there is none, and drag yourself to the shower. A broken heart is no excuse for poor hygiene. Pat yourself on the back if you manage to insert your contact lenses and don't bother with make-up. You're ugly anyway. Wear warm, comfortable clothes and avoid zips, because today is just NOT the day to be tugging at zips. You still suck, and you've still been dumped. Urges to cry today are expected to happen every 7 to 10 minutes.

Get to work and avoid eye contact, and if people remark on the state of your eyes and the sniffles, blame it on "damn allergies". Dump yourself on your desk and choose tasks that require time to dwell on your useless existence and to have a private cry. Language teachers should assign surprise class essays with the title "Men are useless sperm receptacles made of sh*t. Discuss.", "L-irgiel huwa recipjenti inutli ta' sperma maghmulin mill-h**a. Iddiskuti." "Gli uomini sono recipienti inutili di spermatozoi fatti di m***a. Discutete." You get my drift. Maths teachers should assign surprise algebra tests, and fail the boys in class. Good boys should also be given detention, because they're the worst in the lot for hiding their true a**hole selves.

Try to get through the whole day. Go home and watch an episode of How I Met Your Mother and/or Big Bang Theory while repeating the Mantra "My friends are getting married or getting pregnant. I'm just getting more awesome!". Cry. Read. Cry a bit more. Sleep.

N + 2 - Friend Love.

This is the day to allow your friends to love you. Gather around your closest female friends, and your closest male friends who are either gay or in a relationship (single guys are not allowed to give an opinion just in case they happen to have a non-objective interest in you), and allow them to tell you that you're lovely, sweet, beautiful, loving and that IT IS NOT YOUR FAULT that you got dumped. It would be ideal if such declarations are put in writing since you will not believe a word they say today but you will then resort to rereading them at a later stage in your mourning period. The office playlist should include Alternative Rock bands such as Train, Lifehouse, Snow Patrol, The Script, Three Doors Down and Counting Crows.

Urges to cry today are expected to happen every 20-25 minutes. Number of smiles expected: 5. Number of laughs: 1 or 2.

Go have a coffee with a male friend. Cry and embarrass him... it's ok, this is the one time he will let it pass. Then go home. Read, and cry a little more. Sleep.

N + 3 - Tourette's Syndrome

General dehydration is expected to set in imminently, so tear urges should be reduced drastically and replaced with sporadic and uncontrolled declarations of "f*** him!". It is possible that such interjections happen in public places and more loudly than anticipated. Do NOT explain yourself, but if necessary, give observers a look that denotes that:

Today is also the day to consider a haircut. Reconsider it. If you're doing it just to show him what he's missing, a short edgy haircut which you will hate after two weeks is not the right way of doing it because:

a. he won't care
b. he will hate it (although you don't care of course. F*** him!)
c. odds are that he dumped you for someone with long glossy hair that you are still a year or two away from attaining.

Of course, the above does not apply if the only reason you let your hair grow long was because he wanted you to. In that case, chop the damn locks away of course, and if it's long enough, actually do something charitable and donate it. And of course, F*** him!

N + 4 - Alternative Communication Channels

The anger starts dissipating and you actually realise that you miss sharing stuff with him. Who do you tell if you happen to be the last car in the rush hour traffic jam? Or if you walked straight into a cactus? Or if your strawberry yoghurt burst into your brand new handbag? (now that I think about it ... no bloody wonder I'm single) Well, this is the stage where you just accept that THAT particular channel of communication is gone for good, and that it is time to find an alternative.

Consequently, artists should paint (you might consider going abstract and drawing blood coming out of his eyes and slit throat, that should sell well on ebay), musicians should play, writers should write, insecure writers should blog. Athletes should run and have mental conversations to avoid asking themselves why on earth they're actually running like crazy for no particular reason and in no real direction. It is not the same thing, but for now it will do. Turn off your mobile, log off Facebook and resist the urge to get in touch.

N + 5 - Understanding

This the final stage, i.e. that point where your pain is now similar to a dulled constant pressure on your heart that sometimes spikes whenever you think of him, see a photo, or meet him randomly. This feeling will last a while, but it's bearable, and finally gives you a chance to take a good look at yourself, and to start understanding.

Forgive him. Forgive yourself. It's not his fault, and it is certainly not yours. Rather than not being good enough, it is more a question of not being "right" for him, and being thinner, taller, smarter or funnier will make no difference whatsoever. One day, when you will be ready to blindly love another (because, after all, the female heart never EVER learns), you will also realise that he was not right for you either. But until then, learn to love yourself, to stop being your harshest critic, and to appreciate the quirks, gaffes and eccentricities that make you YOU.

That is the other side of Valentine's Day, and in my humble opinion, the one that counts the most.

Love, always.

Gracie xx

That was the night ...

I was hoping we would have avoided sending a male singer with better shaped eyebrows than mine. Again.




Ah well, there are those who say we will do well. The ones of the "glass is half full" variety. Glass half full of narcotics I guess.

On a final note, I take back all that I said about Ron's hairstylist ... s/he must have read my blog and decided to piss me off by turning a perfectly amazing hairstyle into a LegoLand WWI helmet. Not amused in the least!

Guest Post!

Thank you JohnnyFavorite!

Malta Song For Europe - Chronicles from my Eardrum

I'm the kind of person who does not automatically see the glass half full. Many times I see the glass as it really is ... lacking the right amount of water to quench my thirst. However, I'm learning to appreciate silver linings, and for this I can only thank a couple of people around me that this past week have managed to say the right things at the right time to undo the wrong things at the wrong time said by others. You know who you are. Thanks xxxx.

Enough of that. Did you really think I was going to blog about serious stuff?? Honestly? What I was going to get to was the fact that I did manage to find a silver lining to the Malta Song Festival and its excessive coverage on the Times of Malta (and everywhere else, but luckily in my household local TV is mostly ignored). The continuous loop of interviews, articles and irony on the festival at least showed that the journalistic team at ToM was able to take a break from copying and pasting press releases (and getting spelling wrong in that as well!) and having original thoughts, so kudos to that ... maybe they could try it with other topics. It might actually, you know, work.

Anyhoooooo. Last night, yours truly was watching the festival with a group of friends (XXX and XXX thanks for having us!!!), and as the wine flowed, and as the festival progressed, my fingers twitched, and I really missed my loyal sidekick ... no not Blackie my BB, who has taken the role of my husband ... but my laptop, whose faded keyboard and messy desktop is a direct result of it trying to keep up with my train of thoughts. So instead, I went all 19th Century, grabbed a pen and a notebook and SCRIBBLED. While my friends socialised.

I'm sooooo going to die alone and friendless.

However, before I go on, I have to explain that my notes are not very clear (I might have been the slightest of tipsy) and that I have no idea who most of the singers were and what they sang, so please do bear that in mind when you read what might sound slightly cryptic to you and me now, but which I'm sure made perfect sense to me yesterday.

Ok ... off we go!!!

Comperes - Ron and Girl in pink rubber gloves (GIPRG). I won't say much about them, the gloves stole the show and are taking the Maltese Facebook scene by storm. GIPRG was wearing a glittery garbage bag but she still managed to not look hideous. Since I would probably look like yesterday's non-biodegradable garbage ready to be landfilled, I confess to be jealous. So I hate her. So I won't talk about her anymore. Ron: loved the hair, though it was a subject of debate among the girls around me. I defended it with valour. I'm not sure what else you did during the show though ... but well done to the hair stylist!

With that out of the way, here comes the Chronicles of Painful Ear Drum Nothings:

1. Danica Muscat - I thought she looked like someone, but not anyone particular important. I found her vaguely irritating on my ears, so blocked her out with a slice of pizza.

2. Janvil - There is a planet where Janvil is probably understood and appreciated. It's just not ours. To be fair, he removed a full stop between the J and the Anvil, and seemed to realise that the age of Prohibition in the US has been over for about 90 years. However, Janvil reinvented himself with a velvet rust jacket over .... nothing (or presumably chest hair), and included a choreography of him standing with his feet apart and clicking his fingers. Perhaps not surprisingly, I was left unimpressed with my only thought reserved to the body odor that must have resulted from his wardrobe choice.

3. On the third singer my notebook says "Who Cares"? I guess I don't. Moving on.

4. Francesca Borg - the first of a series of important noses on stage. Is it a Maltese woman trait??? *staring at mirror* Hmmm ... yes, my nose does have a certain "quelque chose". Adding another complex to my list. Thank you Ms Borg ... you're really taking me far...into a dark tunnel of self hatred though!

5. Nick Carter!!! No! It's Klinsmann Coleiro. Aaaaaw, he reminds me of my teenage years where I used to have posters and T shirts of the Backstreet Boys and dream of fairy tale encounters with Nick Carter. I don't believe in Fairy Tales anymore... so hello and bye Klinsmann, you're aging well though, keep it up!

6. Richard Edwards - do you remember Patrick Ray Pugliese from Grande Fratello 5? The one born in Teeeeehran? It's him. And that's all I have to say about him.

7. Don't know the name - she carried with her on stage the understudies of the Flashdance actress ... why?

8. Kurt Calleja - the song is called "This the Night" which is the opening phrase of Dexter the Serial Killer just before he goes and knifes someone in the heart after wrapping him in plastic sheeting and showing him pictures of people he (the future victim) had killed. Scary Shit. Mr Calleja, one might consider rethinking the title?

9. Don't know the name, but singer looks like someone from Non e' La Rai. Nothing else impressed me. Moving on.

10. Nadine Bartolo - song starts with she's a clichaaaaaay. Downed by wine and drowned her voice. Bye!

11. Lawrence Gray - just what I imagine a mutant chicken nugget to look like. Isn't it time to just GIVE THE F*** UP??????

12. Kaya - In the same planet that would appreciate Janvil, they would probably appreciate your Marie Antoinette ensemble. Just go look for it. It's FAR AWAY.

13. Claudia Faniello - a very clever surgeon turned her into Kim Kardashian (though one would ask why). But isn't the idea behind fake boobs that of showing them?? Having said that, thanks for covering up though :D.

14. Don't know the name - apparently she's a teacher at a boy's school who went on stage to sing with a some sort of shiny gray jump suit that allowed her to show her legs to full advantage. This jump suit has a secret button that allows it to light up, and the singer actually made it sound as if she thought it was a good idea. A class of Form 2 boys collectively reached puberty last night. Niiiiice.

15. Aaaaah Wayne Micallef. A full head of shiny dark hair (apart from Lawrence Gray's transplant, most of the man on stage had a full head of hair. Has the Maltese hair loss gene been identified and destroyed by any chance? If yes, could we work on the Maltese female nose and hips one now?) and a good boy look that I just go for. Then he opens his mouth and ruins it all when he announces that "Ghamel l-Ingejc!". Short English lesson: it's "Engagement" and not "Ingejc", and incidentally it is "Bridesmaid" and not "Brajs". Please. My life is sucking in general but do allow me the peace of mind of English well spoken. Thaaaaaaaanks.

16. Dorothy Bezzina - RANDOMNESS. A song called "Autobiography"?! Seriously???? I have a song in mind and it's called "Ravings of a Maltese lunatic gone wrong". I think I'll just submit it. Cani e Porci. Seriously.

17. Gianni. WHYYYYYYYYYYYYY? Shouldn't a convertible be enough to assuage your andropause?? Good luck, it would be nice to see you at the Eurovision, but you're so much better than this dammit.

18. Fabrizio Faniello - brother to Kardashian. Like Lawrence Gray, it is time to move on. Psychotherapy helps. Please.

19. Don't know and don't care. But did she add a second arse to the one she already has? (Speaks the blogger with the curves from hell).

20. Eleanor Cassar. Another important nose. And over plucked eyebrows. At this point the wine is making me drowsy.

21. So drowsy am I that all I have written in my notebook at this point is "WTF". We'll leave it at that.

22. Deborah C and someone else - dressed as airhostesses! Hahah, Britney Spears gone wrong and very toxic. Ridiculous!

23. Don't remember and don't care.

24. Something about answering with my eyes. I'll just roll them, and down a stiff one. That should be an answer enough no??

And that dear folks, is what I thought of the Malta Song for Europe Festival. As I bow out, I wish you all enjoyment for tonight's final. Yours truly plans to miss it. However, she will still have something to say about it probably.

Happy weekend!!!

[from a rather dejected] Gracie :)

Snapshots from Hellentine and the Sheikh and I!

Guys, this is going to be long ... so grab a chair, a tea, or a JB, sit back and if need be, divide the reading into two :P. I'm inspired this week!

Part 1 - Snapshots from Hellentine!:

Generally speaking, there is not much of a difference between the month of January and that of February. Both months tend to be pretty uneventful (what? why? has anything happened in January in Malta? anything? ;)) and would seemingly merge effortlessly into each other would it not be from one clear indication that February is approaching; i.e. the unmissable, all encompassing, highly entertaining - Valentine's Day Photo Competitions on Facebook!

Have you noticed that they are once more mushrooming around? I did, and to this end, I would like to use this much loved medium to make a little request, if you would be so kind as to bear with me. So, here goes:

Dear Facebook friend (if you're just an acquaintance, expect to be purged soon, a FB cleanup is held periodically), well done for taking the time and effort to upload a picture of you and your loved one, and for asking me to become a member of a mailing list that I don't want to be in, just for me to "like" your picture. It is really sweet of you. Really. And yes, I realise that:

a. your hormones make you think that your boyfriend is the next best thing after nutella on a warm brioche - it is understandable, and it is nature's way of ensuring that produce an offspring with this guy (thus avoiding the extinction of the human race) before you actually see him for what he really is;

b. the rosy cloud of love you find yourself in makes you think that the one aim in everyone's life is to pass every waking hour thinking of how you and him make a perfect couple and just how cute you look in that picture;

c. you really want a weekend break.

BUT!!!! (yes, it's not grammatically correct to start a sentence with "but" but Jane Austen did it too, so English teachers, let this one go ok?) I will not be liking any of your pictures because:

a. I have not been selected by nature to procreate with your boyfriend, so I see him as he really is. And I don't like.
b. I don't pass my waking hour thinking of how and you him make a perfect couple and I don't think either of you look very cute in that picture. So I don't like.
c. I think that you if you want a weekend break so much that you actually decide to be subjected to public ridicule, you should perhaps consider paying for it yourself. And that I'd like.

thaaaanks.

Two asides:

1. I've been taking so far the female perspective, because for the life of me I cannot imagine a guy who would purposely want to upload a picture of him and his blackheads on FB for people to just laugh. But (shut up English teachers) then again, I have no idea what guys think and feel most of the time. All I know is that they have a completely different Operating System installed from that found in girls, and while it is not exactly incompatible with ours, it seems to be very much subject to errors and formatting necessities. I was tempted to make an Android joke here, but actually most guys of my acquaintance are pretty amazing. So no gratuitous jokes at their expense today. Nevertheless, tutorials on how they actually function would be welcome (I'd take notes)!

2. I know that I constantly take the piss out of anything romantic. That doesn't mean that my aim in life is to die alone eaten by my cats. Actually, I do plan on presenting the world with a Mini-Gracie or two in the future, and I do want to make sure that I teach them all about the beauty of creative expression, to not take themselves too seriously, to never stop asking questions, to mix blind faith with a healthy dose of clear rationality, and to laugh, cry and sing without shame. I also plan on providing them with a good-natured, steady and down to earth daddy to counteract the damage caused by mummy's teachings. So yes, yours truly can love, and she can do so very deeply, but she just chooses to pay for her own weekend breaks.

thaaaaanks again.

end of part 1!


Part 2 - The Sheikh and I!

Now, to keep in line with the theme of "things that really seem cool to you just because you're in love, but are completely, outrageously and sidesplitting funny to rest of the world", I would like to share a pre-wedding video that I've seen some time ago. I'm sure that most of you have been subjected to such videos; having to smile encouragingly while watching the bride and the groom gaze at each other into the sunset, ride white horses on the beach, or randomly finding champagne bottles in the sand. However, this video that I've watched, and which IS AVAILABLE ONLINE (contact me!), beats them all. And if you'd be so patient as to enjoy this descriptive ride, you will know why!

Open Scene 1:

A small boutique, in one of the islands in the Maltese archipelago which is not Malta, Comino or Cominotto, with a sign saying "salesMAN" wanted (erm ... isn't such an advert illegal nowadays?? but anyhoo...moving on). You can imagine what happens. Our hero goes in, gets the job immediately, and within 30 seconds is standing next to the cash register surrounded by female underwear. In the meantime the heroine, who seems to actually own the shop, is randomly moving clothes from 1cm to another for no apparent reason. Also, she has, for some strange reason, left her mobile lying on the counter. Groom-guy decides that it's a really good idea to just pick up her mobile and ask her out by leaving her a message on it. Seriously??? Privacy dude!! Try that trick on me and you'll find a kitchen knife sticking out of your chest! Metaphorically of course. Really. *getting the dexter look* Really.

Well, of course she accepts. And the leave the shop together. Business seemed to be slow anyway.

End Scene

Open Scene 2:

They're having a coffee. Conversation is minimal, but I guess they somehow make it to a second date if we're at the pre-wedding stage. Usually, on my first date, I talk and joke and make my date laugh, but then again, I don't have that many second dates either. (Note to self - annihilate personality and avoid conversation, jokes and eye contact. That seems to work.)

End Scene

Open Scene 3:

RANDOMNESS!!!!! For some unknown reason, the scene opens with a Sheikh draped on a carpet, surrounded by three very covered up belly dancers (we're Catholic! The belly button is sin!!) and giggling bare chested man fanning him. Don't ask. Don't question. It just does not make sense, but please go with it ok?

------------- then comes a useless scene of bride and groom walking in the countryside and staring at each other ---------------

And we're baaack! The Sheikh asks one of his cronies (luckily he's dressed!) to find him a new girl for his harem and gives him a camera. You all know where this is going right?

------------- there is a scene where this guy takes pictures of our heroine. I'm on the edge of my seat, this is just so exciting!!! he goes back to the sheikh and shows him a lot of pictures of ugly women, and of that of the heroine. The sheikh makes his choice, and here it comes! ------------------

Open Scene (lost count now):

Bride and groom are walking around (you have to give them credit for liking their country walks really!) with matching hats, because, of course, this is what everyone does right? The picture guy brought with him a friend or brother, and they're dressed in matching striped sweaters, in the style of i Fratelli Dalton but somehow reminding me more about the Gemelli Derrek (you remember them? of the Catapulta Infernale???).

Anyway, to cut a long story short, as the bride is chatting away on her mobile while her fiance walks respectfully away to pick flowers (?!? I guess they had the talk about privacy after all), they throw a sheet on her and kidnap her. OH THE HORROR!

The idiots leave their wallet behind in the scuffle, and apparently there is an ID Card. I know ... this is not getting better. I guess I should warn you. It won't!

End Scene

Open Scene:

In the Sheikh's tent. The same sheet is lifted, and guess who's in it? The bride of course, who had the time to put on a belly dancer costume while shut in the boot of the car. So, now the question that one asks is the following. What does one do when one is kidnapped by a pervy sheikh and forced to form part of his harem? Does one try to escape and make a scene? No! Of course not, the only thing that one does in such situations is to apparently ignore and render irrelevant a hundred years of femminist endeavors and dance away in front of your kidnapper without a care in the world! Somehow, I don't particularly believe that the director of this piece of drivel had the Stockholm Syndrome in mind. Anyway, as the bride shakes her booty and has the time of her life, the groom makes his way, COMPLETELY INCONSPICUOUSLY DRAPED IN A WHITE SHEET, and starts to dance with the harem girls. Bride dances away and doesn't give a shit. Suddenly, with something that looks remarkably like a toy pistol, he threatens the sheikh, and grabs the bride to take her away. Since she has no care, or rational thought, in the world, she just follows him as if the past events(which took up 10 minutes of my life) did not happen.

And they lived happily ever after...which is then shown in another scene of them staring at each other on some beach somewhere. I was half expecting the champagne bottle and the white horses. Thankfully, I was spared.

I would like to reiterate that this video is true and is found online. The only reason for not posting the link here is that is that I'm not particularly sure it's legal to do so and cannot really be bothered to check. If you want the link, FB, whatsapp, email or BBM me, most of you know who I am anyway ;).

I do apologise for this extremely long post, but if it at least leads to a couple of lovebirds or two refraining from subjecting the rest of us to the insanity of Hellentine Pictures and Sheikhy Pre-wedding videos, then perhaps, PERHAPS! it would have not all been in vain :).

hugs

Gracie