My experience of hospital is badly tarnished by my experience of the final time that I took my mum to hospital on the evening of Sunday 4th May 2008. That was an experience that is, frankly, shameful and has left a deep seated antipathy toward a certain hospital on the outskirts of the county town of our westernmost county. I would still struggle to say anything good about the Royal Cornwall Hospital, Treliske.
However, this was not Treliske. When hovering twixt sleep and wonder in a twilight world where everything is looked at but nothing seen from the vantage point of a hospital bed you are conscious of the twilight world in which my cannulating friend and his young lady colleague undertake their roles with masterful competence.
Once my attendant was shown the way out past the security doors I was alone on a shared stage. The two in charge never stopped and my fellow patients never ceased to demand their attention. I watched but mostly I listened.
In the bed next to me a young man, 30ish maybe, was constantly getting up and making rapid movements in the general direction of the exit corridor. Each time either one or the other of the duty nurses would head him off only to be told that he needed the toilet. Patiently they would let him go and usher him back to his bed. When this is taking place every 10 minutes or so, but always when the nurses were in attendance at another bedside, patience becomes hard to come by. It did with me but not with them.
At about 0200 he was escorted back by a couple who were obviously not nurses. One placed him on his bed whilst the other stood at the end of it and explained the process of being sectioned under this act in compliance of this law and by the power invested and so on. The ramifications of such action being taken was emphatically expounded. He didn't sound at all medical. He had some words with my cannulator and returned for more words with my neighbour before leaving. It didn't stop my neighbour from continuing with his escape plans but he was far less determined failing to get out of the ward and only needed oral instruction in order to bring about a somewhat lethargic return to his bed.
As this was going on at about 2230 a lady arrived with her 89(?)year old father in a wheelchair. Both obviously distressed, her with a hint of annoyance if not anger. A diabetic, he had gone out shortly after lunch and taken to drinking. When found he had fallen and was unable to stop the bleeding from his leg. With little fuss he was cleaned, comforted, settled and sorted.
Within a pretty short time his daughter was able to let him know what she thought of him, how sorry she was for those who had to sort him out and so on. During a pause she was delicately removed to one side, sat down, given a mug of something I could have made good use of and calmed. Not long later she went to her Dad's bedside and then took her leave solemnly with head bowed. I hope in relief rather than embarrassment. All told less than an hour with only a few diversions to head off the serial escapee.
During the whole time the bed diagonally furthest from me was occupied .... unoccupied by an elderly man so obviously distressed. Frequently he would kick off his sheets and dramatically divest himself of his gown all in relative silence but once both feet hit the ground he became terribly overexcited but knew not where to go nor what to do next. The young lady of the ward dealt with this man with a wit and firm tenderness that was truly uplifting to witness.
The second amazing person I witnessed that first night.
The other three beds were occupied, one by a seemingly unconscious man, next to him was a man in some discomfort requiring frequent medication and one by me.
At 0230ish a patient was removed from the side ward room opposite me. Much ado, many apologies and the porters wheeled her away with an element of urgency.
Once they had gone a very quiet voice asked me how much I would like to be in that side ward. Turning to my left I saw our firmly tender ward lady writing numbers on grids. I explained that I thought they'd done enough for one night and I think I suggested that if I were her I'd get a coffee and leave me be. Oh, I'm going to she replied and then she called the cannulator and he wheeled me in, made sure the wires were wired and explained that it was going to get noisy as a "shouty" patient was on his way. Is it always like this, I asked. No, sometimes it gets really hectic, he said.
Before he went I must have been asleep.
Their stage is seen by few but their performances are matched by far fewer. But this is no act, these are not actors.
What amazing people such as these are.
I was awoken at 0515 by porters and at 0525 I was in the x-Ray room.
Thursday, March 30, 2017
A piercing for my sister's birthday
The blood taken on Monday was followed by the instruction to revert to doing nothing which took about as much effort as I could manage. The doctor promised to "phone tomorrow about 5.00", which he did.
When the phone rang I answered. With little preamble he asked if I was able to get myself to hospital. When? I enquired, now, he said, they're waiting for you in the triage unit.
Within an hour I was registered, undressed, labelled, tucked in and wheeled away into an acute medical ward. Here a couple of nurses tried in vain to find a vein suitable for a cannula. They were ever so lovely and gentle but six holes and six taped bits of gauze were all there was to show for their efforts.
In next to no time a lady with a laptop on a trolley was scanning my barcoded wrist band, asking me my date of birth and relieving the inside of my elbow of numerous vials of blood. This was a process with which I was about to become exceedingly familiar both in hospital and at the local surgery until the day before yesterday.
Swiftly a blood pressure monitor, temperature monitor and something else was attached and then the bloods lady was back for another few vials full. I was duly informed that my bloods were "deranged" which I thought highly probable as many had been known to consider me generally so.
About 2100 a young man in a nurse uniform passed by and mentioned that he'd come to cannulate me next. My attentive attendant told him that it had already been tried.
Next time he passed he informed us that he didn't say he was going to try to cannulate me, he was going to do it.
Next time he didn't pass by. He stopped, examined my arms, removed the evidence of previous attempts, looked at me, shrugged his shoulders and without me realising it I was cannulated.
He was the first of the truly amazing people I met.
When the phone rang I answered. With little preamble he asked if I was able to get myself to hospital. When? I enquired, now, he said, they're waiting for you in the triage unit.
Within an hour I was registered, undressed, labelled, tucked in and wheeled away into an acute medical ward. Here a couple of nurses tried in vain to find a vein suitable for a cannula. They were ever so lovely and gentle but six holes and six taped bits of gauze were all there was to show for their efforts.
In next to no time a lady with a laptop on a trolley was scanning my barcoded wrist band, asking me my date of birth and relieving the inside of my elbow of numerous vials of blood. This was a process with which I was about to become exceedingly familiar both in hospital and at the local surgery until the day before yesterday.
Swiftly a blood pressure monitor, temperature monitor and something else was attached and then the bloods lady was back for another few vials full. I was duly informed that my bloods were "deranged" which I thought highly probable as many had been known to consider me generally so.
About 2100 a young man in a nurse uniform passed by and mentioned that he'd come to cannulate me next. My attentive attendant told him that it had already been tried.Next time he passed he informed us that he didn't say he was going to try to cannulate me, he was going to do it.
Next time he didn't pass by. He stopped, examined my arms, removed the evidence of previous attempts, looked at me, shrugged his shoulders and without me realising it I was cannulated.
He was the first of the truly amazing people I met.
Wednesday, March 29, 2017
̶S̶o̶m̶e̶t̶i̶m̶e̶s̶ my wife is rìght
No sooner had I pressed 《publish》 than the phone rang. Fortunately the last thing that she did before planting stuff in earth outside was to put the phone, a sheet of paper and a pencil on the coffee table easily within arms reach.
Tuesday 4th April, said a very pleasant sounding lady, be here for 0700. That is what I wrote immediately before interrupting the gardener.
How did we get here, I thought? Certainly no effort on my part!
A couple of posts below involved a Saturday walk around Manoel Island in the heat of the Mediterranean sun. That night I went to bed much earlier than was normal but when I woke up I was tired. This felt most odd but unremarkable as I thought that midday heat and too much sun made me a bit exhausted.
The journey home on Wednesday was remarkable for its smoothness. Like clockwork. But I was still abnormally tired. I was told to go to the doctors. I didn't. The week passed and the tiredness continued but I could cope with it.
The second Thursday back was a most lovely day. As close to Mediterranean as you can get in this country in February. Some friends came round for coffee, the real stuff and after they left I thought it a good idea to ride my push bike along the seafront. This I did, stopping for a yarn here and there and covering the cycle paths at a sedate pace. It felt good.
Got home and couldn't lift a pint of Ribena. Lay down on the settee and didn't wake until my wife came home. Much later. Go to the doctors she told me. Don't be silly, I said I just rode 10 miles, I'm bound to be tired. I've done that same route a zillion times and never felt that tired, though.
Friday we went to see a car on a local garage forecourt. At some point the world went wobbly, I turned yellow, struggled to stand, focus, or think. I was put into our car and driven home at which time a phone call to the doctor was made but not by me. Within an hour I was sat in front of a very nice doctor who I'd never met. I only come to the doctors when I'm poorly, I said.
Well, you're poorly, he said. I think it's a virus, hepatitis or similar so go home, stay there, don't do anything and don't take any alcohol. Be here at 0900 on Monday for blood tests.
That was it. I did apologise for taking up his time but with a broad grin and smiling eyes he told me, in a conspiratorial voice that I'd been far more interesting than all the coughs, colds and sore throats that he'd seen all day.
We went home. I didn't go out. I wasn't allowed to do anything. All traces of bottles alcoholic disappeared. No one told me that I should have seen the doctor a fortnight ago.
Maybe there was one who did, but whenever she mentions it she does so with grace and understanding.......
And she had me first in the queue for a blood test long before 0900 on Monday.
Tuesday 4th April, said a very pleasant sounding lady, be here for 0700. That is what I wrote immediately before interrupting the gardener.
How did we get here, I thought? Certainly no effort on my part!
A couple of posts below involved a Saturday walk around Manoel Island in the heat of the Mediterranean sun. That night I went to bed much earlier than was normal but when I woke up I was tired. This felt most odd but unremarkable as I thought that midday heat and too much sun made me a bit exhausted.
The journey home on Wednesday was remarkable for its smoothness. Like clockwork. But I was still abnormally tired. I was told to go to the doctors. I didn't. The week passed and the tiredness continued but I could cope with it.
The second Thursday back was a most lovely day. As close to Mediterranean as you can get in this country in February. Some friends came round for coffee, the real stuff and after they left I thought it a good idea to ride my push bike along the seafront. This I did, stopping for a yarn here and there and covering the cycle paths at a sedate pace. It felt good.
Got home and couldn't lift a pint of Ribena. Lay down on the settee and didn't wake until my wife came home. Much later. Go to the doctors she told me. Don't be silly, I said I just rode 10 miles, I'm bound to be tired. I've done that same route a zillion times and never felt that tired, though.
Friday we went to see a car on a local garage forecourt. At some point the world went wobbly, I turned yellow, struggled to stand, focus, or think. I was put into our car and driven home at which time a phone call to the doctor was made but not by me. Within an hour I was sat in front of a very nice doctor who I'd never met. I only come to the doctors when I'm poorly, I said.
Well, you're poorly, he said. I think it's a virus, hepatitis or similar so go home, stay there, don't do anything and don't take any alcohol. Be here at 0900 on Monday for blood tests.
That was it. I did apologise for taking up his time but with a broad grin and smiling eyes he told me, in a conspiratorial voice that I'd been far more interesting than all the coughs, colds and sore throats that he'd seen all day.
We went home. I didn't go out. I wasn't allowed to do anything. All traces of bottles alcoholic disappeared. No one told me that I should have seen the doctor a fortnight ago.
Maybe there was one who did, but whenever she mentions it she does so with grace and understanding.......
And she had me first in the queue for a blood test long before 0900 on Monday.
Tuesday, March 28, 2017
The day a jar of instant coffee appeared ...... here.
The confession, when it came, was hesitatingly given. Almost sheepishly but in no way
apologetically.
Instant coffee in our house, albeit hidden in plain sight.
We have, in coffee corner, the only part of our kitchen over which I have even the slightest jurisdiction, a full on Gaggia espresso machine, old but rebuilt and fully functional, a marvellous Aerobie Aeropress, a present from some who recognised that our previous one was way beyond sensible repair and a recently purchased, for a magnificently benevolent sum from our highly esteemed coffee supplier, Chemex Filter.
Sharing coffee corner are both a La Pavoni electric burr grinder doser and a rather fine hand grinder for when less heat is required for a more delicate bean.
Hence my surprise at the news that instant coffee had been purveyed. However, I am no longer able to exercise any significant input in respect of one's daily activities.
Like the Gaggia, which over recent months stopped functioning as it was originally designed to operate and which eventualy needed a new switch, then a new boiler, a new pump and extensive internal replumbing I, too, have attained a similar failure to function properly.
Fortunately my pump is excellent according to the anaesthetist , my boiler is fine and my switches function he said. Alas, the surgeon says that my failure to function as originally designed is down to the presence of an alien blocking a tube that must not be blocked.
Thus a fairly significant number of my digestive organs need partial removal and my digestive tract is in need of extensive replumbing.
All the scans have been pored over, the pre-op tests passed, to the surprise of some, and the prognosis given. The pre-op medication sits in a bag a few feet away, a veritable library of books, pamphlets and myriad cards with names and phone numbers are never far from my managerial purveyor of instant coffee.
Now we await a phone call and whilst I am being replumbed, pressure tested and stitched back together visitors may be offered coffee here but it may not be the real thing.
Instant coffee in our house, albeit hidden in plain sight.
We have, in coffee corner, the only part of our kitchen over which I have even the slightest jurisdiction, a full on Gaggia espresso machine, old but rebuilt and fully functional, a marvellous Aerobie Aeropress, a present from some who recognised that our previous one was way beyond sensible repair and a recently purchased, for a magnificently benevolent sum from our highly esteemed coffee supplier, Chemex Filter.
Sharing coffee corner are both a La Pavoni electric burr grinder doser and a rather fine hand grinder for when less heat is required for a more delicate bean.
Hence my surprise at the news that instant coffee had been purveyed. However, I am no longer able to exercise any significant input in respect of one's daily activities.
Like the Gaggia, which over recent months stopped functioning as it was originally designed to operate and which eventualy needed a new switch, then a new boiler, a new pump and extensive internal replumbing I, too, have attained a similar failure to function properly.
Fortunately my pump is excellent according to the anaesthetist , my boiler is fine and my switches function he said. Alas, the surgeon says that my failure to function as originally designed is down to the presence of an alien blocking a tube that must not be blocked.
Thus a fairly significant number of my digestive organs need partial removal and my digestive tract is in need of extensive replumbing.
All the scans have been pored over, the pre-op tests passed, to the surprise of some, and the prognosis given. The pre-op medication sits in a bag a few feet away, a veritable library of books, pamphlets and myriad cards with names and phone numbers are never far from my managerial purveyor of instant coffee.
Now we await a phone call and whilst I am being replumbed, pressure tested and stitched back together visitors may be offered coffee here but it may not be the real thing.
Wednesday, February 08, 2017
One more cup of coffee
Before we go
The bags are packed
We're ready to go
Stood here outside the balcony door
Drinking in this view just once more
But we're leaving on a jet plane
Don't know if we'll be back again
Dylan and Denver, strange songwriters to come to mind this morning.
The bags are packed
We're ready to go
Stood here outside the balcony door
Drinking in this view just once more
But we're leaving on a jet plane
Don't know if we'll be back again
Dylan and Denver, strange songwriters to come to mind this morning.
Tuesday, February 07, 2017
Sunsets
No photo can convey the grandeur of a sunset adequately but this was ten minutes ago from a balcony upon which it has been my delight to spend an hour or two now and again watching the world go by.
By this time tomorrow we'll be above it all and by this time the day after we'll be freezing.
What a great month.
What a great place.
Ready to come home. now.
Even though we probably won't feel the sun this warm until June and only then if we're having a good summer!
By this time tomorrow we'll be above it all and by this time the day after we'll be freezing.
What a great month.
What a great place.
Ready to come home. now.
Even though we probably won't feel the sun this warm until June and only then if we're having a good summer!
Sunday, February 05, 2017
Musings on a balcony
Earlier this evening senior management was in communication with another regarding my "Musings on a balcony" which obviously is not what this blog is all about. Each day is different. Each day sees a new challenge, new opportunity, another inspiring series of events that well, inspire.
Today for example. Woke up. Breakfasted on the balcony. Looking right revealed:
I did get the milk. Fortunately, no instructions were given as to what I couldn't get so I managed to find an Italian hole in the wall offering bolognese arancini's which management doesn't really take to even after having watched Salvo Montelbano sing their praises in subtitled Sicilian. My deduction that yesterday's bread roll, toasted, with the remnants of Friday's mixed salad would be acceptable especially if the salad cream was placed so as to cover the brown bits.
I was proved correct but as a totally unexpected surprise I also found these on the other side of the Italian counter.
The arancini was delicious.
So was the afters, seriously delicious and easily five a day in one hit.
A Cisk saw lunch taken and the traffic reverted to Sunday normal, I assume that's what it was as this is our first sunny Sunday.
The heat became a bit too much for us mere northeners so I retired indoors midway through the first half of a rainy Rome rugby match. I noted that it was not going well for Wales so I expected something good. Alas, when I was woken by management's unsilenced door opening procedure it was all over. And had been for a while.
By this time the balcony had reverted to bearable so once again I was able to watch vessels (various) returning and lift the bulk occasionally when an interesting noise radiated upwards. All morning it was exotica, late this afternoon it was Mini's (proper Sir Alex Issigonis A Series ones), Capris, Mustangs (old ones) and various others that we would call classics. Some of which I couldn't identify from this vantage point.
Today for example. Woke up. Breakfasted on the balcony. Looking right revealed:
Straight ahead Manoel Island looked superbly calm and Valletta looked magnificent through the heat haze. Not only was it still. It was hot. A traipse up to Pastor Joe's was considered but in fairness the absence of rain and cooling breezes meant that the risk of sunstroke was over the threshold of healthy safe acceptance.
So we remained on the balcony.
Inevitably, this led to a more rapid depletion of the milk supply than had been accounted for. Thus, about middayish I was required to fetch milk. I did offer reasons why I was not the best option but was overruled in no uncertain terms.
This involved sending me out unattended with a pocket full of shrapnel. Metal euros are a bit of a mystery to me, especially without reading glasses as the embossing is particularly poor as is the size differentiation. If you really want to know how poorly thought of the euro metal is try finding out what the symbol for cent is. We all know the € symbol but thus far the great and the good in Brussels when they're not in Strasbourg for their soptofrench week have failed to agree on the adoption of a euro wide agreed symbol for the humble cent. At this rate the € will be history before the cent has it's own symbol. Shame.
Anyway, I was not so much let out as shoved through the door. Seems that I wasn't needed on the balcony to identify the passing vessels nor to offer differentiation between V6, V8, V12 and one V10 as opposed to the more mundane with exhausts from Amazon.
I did get the milk. Fortunately, no instructions were given as to what I couldn't get so I managed to find an Italian hole in the wall offering bolognese arancini's which management doesn't really take to even after having watched Salvo Montelbano sing their praises in subtitled Sicilian. My deduction that yesterday's bread roll, toasted, with the remnants of Friday's mixed salad would be acceptable especially if the salad cream was placed so as to cover the brown bits.I was proved correct but as a totally unexpected surprise I also found these on the other side of the Italian counter.
The arancini was delicious.
So was the afters, seriously delicious and easily five a day in one hit.
A Cisk saw lunch taken and the traffic reverted to Sunday normal, I assume that's what it was as this is our first sunny Sunday.
The heat became a bit too much for us mere northeners so I retired indoors midway through the first half of a rainy Rome rugby match. I noted that it was not going well for Wales so I expected something good. Alas, when I was woken by management's unsilenced door opening procedure it was all over. And had been for a while.
By this time the balcony had reverted to bearable so once again I was able to watch vessels (various) returning and lift the bulk occasionally when an interesting noise radiated upwards. All morning it was exotica, late this afternoon it was Mini's (proper Sir Alex Issigonis A Series ones), Capris, Mustangs (old ones) and various others that we would call classics. Some of which I couldn't identify from this vantage point.
Finally, the last Grand Tour of the series was enjoyed, Countryfile is being endured as I type and once The Midwives do what they do I shall be off to lie down with my book.
I may sulk a bit as the next two days are forecast to be pretty stormy so balcony time may be restricted. What on earth will I do then?
Musings on a balcony? No, it's far more than that, isn't it?
Saturday, February 04, 2017
Your last chance, Manoel
Directly opposite us lies Manoel Island named after Manoel Fort. All in all quite distinctive and hard to miss. A few years ago it was sold to a developer who has singularly failed to develop it. What they did do was to deny access to it. This annoyed the locals who have campaigned to have it reopened to walkers. In this they have partly succeeded. It is now open from 0800-2000 Saturday and Sunday.
So today we took ourselves for a wander around it and most excellent it is, too. Most of it is in a state of disrepair and fences abound but you can get to the edges in most places which is just as well.
Today was the hottest so far by far. As we came back over the causeway we had to stop at the first refreshment dispensary and I'm glad we did. We declined the offer of Maltese stew but settled for two glasses of whatever was coldest. It was still hotter than a hot summer's day at home so we were forced to pause for more refreshment between the first stop and the flat. This time we partook of a sandwich in an Italian bar which was superb. Italian is good.
The water was clear, the views superb and it wasn't exactly teeming with folks. There was a solitary sunbathing Italian who asked me to take a photo of her. This I did regardless of the effort. I still can't get the hang of taking a photo, or in this case half a dozen with a little tablet. She professed satisfaction so I had the luxury of knowing that I'd done a good job well.
Up at the fort gates a couple of Brits loudly talked historic rubbish and even though I was tempted to explain that it was built by a French knight it was only of use in repelling Napoleon in 1798 which it singularly failed to do. In WW2 it was a submarine base, albeit with no cover for submarines and a place to store fuel and ammunition near enough to Valletta to be useful but far enough away to have been considered dispensable. It's history is well worth a Google.
The causeway joining Manoel Island to civilisation is not a thing of beauty nor is the road itself a place to loiter. On the left as you go on to the island there is the most bizarre bird sanctuary I've ever seen and one of the most unpleasantly odorous. I could ruin your day with photos of old boats, sheds, all manner of constructions wholly given over to homes for retired ducks, chickens, pigeons and whatever else happens to stay there. It is a pretty awful place.
Opposite the duck's home is the road to the marina where some very expensive boats are moored. Amevi, registered in Bikini owned by one Lakshmi Mittal makes interesting Googling. Whilst we were loitering they were pressurising one of her cooling systems with compressed air whilst a diver was looking for bubbles. She's a bit big and shiny with colour coded crew and the fanciest as well as the largest embroidered fender socks I've ever seen. 150,000,000 if you're interested but she's currently not for sale or charter.
What a great day but sadly unless tomorrow is as hot or we go away again we'll not enjoy this sort of weather in the UK for a long time, probably for ever! Almost 30°C by mid afternoon and far too hot even for a sojourn on the balcony.
A bit noisy on the balcony as well because the Ferraris, a Merc SLR, various very sweet sounding Porsches and not a few boys with exhausts are out and about making music. Sadly the Hardleys are out too but they are just making a din.
I shall so miss this.
 |
| Surplus cannon lying at the tip of Manoel Island |
Today was the hottest so far by far. As we came back over the causeway we had to stop at the first refreshment dispensary and I'm glad we did. We declined the offer of Maltese stew but settled for two glasses of whatever was coldest. It was still hotter than a hot summer's day at home so we were forced to pause for more refreshment between the first stop and the flat. This time we partook of a sandwich in an Italian bar which was superb. Italian is good.
The water was clear, the views superb and it wasn't exactly teeming with folks. There was a solitary sunbathing Italian who asked me to take a photo of her. This I did regardless of the effort. I still can't get the hang of taking a photo, or in this case half a dozen with a little tablet. She professed satisfaction so I had the luxury of knowing that I'd done a good job well.
Up at the fort gates a couple of Brits loudly talked historic rubbish and even though I was tempted to explain that it was built by a French knight it was only of use in repelling Napoleon in 1798 which it singularly failed to do. In WW2 it was a submarine base, albeit with no cover for submarines and a place to store fuel and ammunition near enough to Valletta to be useful but far enough away to have been considered dispensable. It's history is well worth a Google.
 |
| Marsaxmett harbour entrance from as far down Manoel Island as you can go |
 |
| Manoel Fort and Italian sunbather |
 |
| Steps. Nice ones |
 |
| The gate to emptiness |
 |
| Different aspect |
 |
| A small portion but overall a very pungent smell. Not good. |
 |
| Looking for bubbles ..... I saw them first! |
What a great day but sadly unless tomorrow is as hot or we go away again we'll not enjoy this sort of weather in the UK for a long time, probably for ever! Almost 30°C by mid afternoon and far too hot even for a sojourn on the balcony.
A bit noisy on the balcony as well because the Ferraris, a Merc SLR, various very sweet sounding Porsches and not a few boys with exhausts are out and about making music. Sadly the Hardleys are out too but they are just making a din.
I shall so miss this.
Friday, February 03, 2017
Denied a pee by Theresa May
It's not every day that your country's Prime Minister stops you having a pee but today she successfully managed to do so.
Knowing that an EU Leaders meeting was happening we watched with amusement from afar. From about 750 metres away, in fact. Last night a succession of LJ45s or similar converged on Luqa from many of the northern capitals. Indeed the one from Lisbon looked like it was going to pick up their neighbour but it was a bluff and just south of Madrid he swung away directly for Luqa. The hotel opposite was well illuminated all evening.
This morning's breakfast was enlivened by the sight of figures on rooves, figures at the rear of the hotel opposite, to the left on a roof in central Valletta figures were clearly visible adopting prone positions like little soldiers. Helicopters buzzed about and Malta's Navy had been unmoored and was not where it had been.
We watched and decided that a visit to Cafe Barrakka was in order as we'd not been there so far this year. Getting there was a bit of a game. Our normal route was hindered by portable gates manned by men who did look serious, flustered or if young, both. We were squeezed past St.George's Square where the dais, spotlights, TV crews and journalists were much in evidence. Fortunately John Pienaar was on duty for had it been the spectacularly self important Laura Kunessberg I may have been tempted to let her know that she doesn't speak for me. In fact, a good reporter reports, a commentator comments, an analyst analyses but she seems to no longer fit any of those categories. Anyway, she wasn't there. Maybe the BBC have swapped her for Robert Peston, again.
We know Valletta well enough to be able to take a succession of back streets and alleyways, avoiding "Strait Street" of course, thanks Mike. Wouldn't like another Lisbon "Texas Bar" incident, would we?
Thus we were soon seated in a favourite spot, refreshment to hand and waitress engaged in delightful conversation as we were her only customers. It's off to the side of Upper Barrakka Gardens alongside The Saluting Battery. I like it there as it is a great vantage point from which to observe the shipping of which there's always enough to keep ones interest for as long as permission is extended.
No big ships today. Bereft of tonnage we had a lifeboat and a multitude of smaller RIBs, some with guns mounted in the bow, some with them at the stern. Further out were the Patrol Boats and beyond that a pair of corvette sized vessels.
Interestingly, the road to the front was closed by a large black BMW as the seafront on this side of Valletta was a black BMW saloon car park along with about a weeks output of small minibuses. An abundance of motorbikes were present, every street had police at the barriers and groups of Men in Black, alas neither Tommy Lee Jones or Will Smith. In fact few were taking things lightly. As we passed a pastizzi shop one went in whilst his partner stood outside doing a very good impression of a man charged with close personal protection of a VIP. It was a trifle incongruous.
Now, the Cafe Barrakka has all the facility you need but is it one you want? We have used it but knowing that a few metres up the road lies Upper Barrakka Garden with first class facilities we tend to go up that route. As we did today.
Alas, as we went round the corner a young policeman was in the process of hastily regaining his composure as he'd just placed a gate barring our way. As he was encouraging us to go away Theresa passed into Barrakka Gardens above us. We all need to go so we let her.
Fortunately we know where equally good facilities lie on our way back to the ferry so there was no panic. Which did not seem the case for the young bobbies chasing about the streets as we retraced our steps. It would appear that the morning session was cut short by an hour so obviously Theresa was more desperate to go than us so we forgive her.
More seriously it would seem that she came, told "them" to put their 2% into the defence, or should that be defense, pot and all would be well. Little discussion ensued so they went out of the Armoury in St.George's square, had a photo call, went about 50m along Republika Street to the Co-Cathedral. Toured that and saw the Caravaggio, then Barrakka gardens, down the lift to a boat where they were ferried to Vittoriosa and thence to Birgu for food. I hope they didn't overwhelm Cafe Brasil as we intend going there on Monday.
Once they'd eaten they meet again sans Theresa and disperse. About an hour ago we saw all the blue lights and black cars dispersing and before that the navy moored up in its usual berth.
We also caught a ferry and returned for food. Not any old food, but M&S Cornish Cruncher Cheddar & Pickled Onion Crisps and Cisk, of course as it was very hot. Even the fresh breeze was hot.
So much excitement. However, I am puzzled as by my rough calculations, and info gleaned, 800 came, not all were worthy of cars and private jets but those who were arrived at the Armoury between 1000 and 1030. By 1230 they had been photoed and were in Upper Barrakka Gardens.
Assume a couple of hours for using the facilities, descending the lift, a boat ride, a wander, sit, eat and then go back would mean a 1430 reconvening at the earliest and probably nearer 1500 - 1530. This is the Mediterranean, after all. The navy came back between 1500 and 1600 by which time the flashing blue lights were already chaperoning black saloons along Valletta waterfront.
Excuse me, but than implies a maximum of a 90 minute session this morning and maybe an hour this afternoon. After having flown these people all over Europe in state supplied jets, that's it? Apart from providing BMW with a huge advert and massive sales, paid who knows how much in salaries for probably as many pairs of suits as it would take to populate a small town, make the place gleaming and spangly, what will all that expenditure have achieved?
We won't even consider the inconvenience of everyone in Malta's capital city which is not very big, at a guess I'd say you could fit it in the Thames between the Millennium Bridge and Tower Bridge and still have room for HMS Belfast to steam around it but it's still quite something.
The logistics of all this amazes me. And I am left wondering what it's all for? Last night the BBC World Service announced that Mrs.May was coming for the morning meeting to bear news from Trumpton and then she was leaving. So they knew what she was going to say anyway.
I just hope that she thinks as highly of the loos in Upper Barrakka Gardens as we do but for what it's worth, the loos in the Fortification Centre are so much nicer and far fewer even know of their existence. Fewer still know about the lift access.
Surely, though, could they not have stayed at home, had a video conference, used their own loos and still have achieved no less?
 | |
| Republika Street, the main one. |
This morning's breakfast was enlivened by the sight of figures on rooves, figures at the rear of the hotel opposite, to the left on a roof in central Valletta figures were clearly visible adopting prone positions like little soldiers. Helicopters buzzed about and Malta's Navy had been unmoored and was not where it had been.
We watched and decided that a visit to Cafe Barrakka was in order as we'd not been there so far this year. Getting there was a bit of a game. Our normal route was hindered by portable gates manned by men who did look serious, flustered or if young, both. We were squeezed past St.George's Square where the dais, spotlights, TV crews and journalists were much in evidence. Fortunately John Pienaar was on duty for had it been the spectacularly self important Laura Kunessberg I may have been tempted to let her know that she doesn't speak for me. In fact, a good reporter reports, a commentator comments, an analyst analyses but she seems to no longer fit any of those categories. Anyway, she wasn't there. Maybe the BBC have swapped her for Robert Peston, again.
We know Valletta well enough to be able to take a succession of back streets and alleyways, avoiding "Strait Street" of course, thanks Mike. Wouldn't like another Lisbon "Texas Bar" incident, would we?
Thus we were soon seated in a favourite spot, refreshment to hand and waitress engaged in delightful conversation as we were her only customers. It's off to the side of Upper Barrakka Gardens alongside The Saluting Battery. I like it there as it is a great vantage point from which to observe the shipping of which there's always enough to keep ones interest for as long as permission is extended.
No big ships today. Bereft of tonnage we had a lifeboat and a multitude of smaller RIBs, some with guns mounted in the bow, some with them at the stern. Further out were the Patrol Boats and beyond that a pair of corvette sized vessels.
Interestingly, the road to the front was closed by a large black BMW as the seafront on this side of Valletta was a black BMW saloon car park along with about a weeks output of small minibuses. An abundance of motorbikes were present, every street had police at the barriers and groups of Men in Black, alas neither Tommy Lee Jones or Will Smith. In fact few were taking things lightly. As we passed a pastizzi shop one went in whilst his partner stood outside doing a very good impression of a man charged with close personal protection of a VIP. It was a trifle incongruous.
 |
| Theresa May, in blue. Lousy photo but I'm on holiday. |
Alas, as we went round the corner a young policeman was in the process of hastily regaining his composure as he'd just placed a gate barring our way. As he was encouraging us to go away Theresa passed into Barrakka Gardens above us. We all need to go so we let her.
Fortunately we know where equally good facilities lie on our way back to the ferry so there was no panic. Which did not seem the case for the young bobbies chasing about the streets as we retraced our steps. It would appear that the morning session was cut short by an hour so obviously Theresa was more desperate to go than us so we forgive her.
More seriously it would seem that she came, told "them" to put their 2% into the defence, or should that be defense, pot and all would be well. Little discussion ensued so they went out of the Armoury in St.George's square, had a photo call, went about 50m along Republika Street to the Co-Cathedral. Toured that and saw the Caravaggio, then Barrakka gardens, down the lift to a boat where they were ferried to Vittoriosa and thence to Birgu for food. I hope they didn't overwhelm Cafe Brasil as we intend going there on Monday.
Once they'd eaten they meet again sans Theresa and disperse. About an hour ago we saw all the blue lights and black cars dispersing and before that the navy moored up in its usual berth.
We also caught a ferry and returned for food. Not any old food, but M&S Cornish Cruncher Cheddar & Pickled Onion Crisps and Cisk, of course as it was very hot. Even the fresh breeze was hot.
So much excitement. However, I am puzzled as by my rough calculations, and info gleaned, 800 came, not all were worthy of cars and private jets but those who were arrived at the Armoury between 1000 and 1030. By 1230 they had been photoed and were in Upper Barrakka Gardens.Assume a couple of hours for using the facilities, descending the lift, a boat ride, a wander, sit, eat and then go back would mean a 1430 reconvening at the earliest and probably nearer 1500 - 1530. This is the Mediterranean, after all. The navy came back between 1500 and 1600 by which time the flashing blue lights were already chaperoning black saloons along Valletta waterfront.
Excuse me, but than implies a maximum of a 90 minute session this morning and maybe an hour this afternoon. After having flown these people all over Europe in state supplied jets, that's it? Apart from providing BMW with a huge advert and massive sales, paid who knows how much in salaries for probably as many pairs of suits as it would take to populate a small town, make the place gleaming and spangly, what will all that expenditure have achieved?
We won't even consider the inconvenience of everyone in Malta's capital city which is not very big, at a guess I'd say you could fit it in the Thames between the Millennium Bridge and Tower Bridge and still have room for HMS Belfast to steam around it but it's still quite something.
The logistics of all this amazes me. And I am left wondering what it's all for? Last night the BBC World Service announced that Mrs.May was coming for the morning meeting to bear news from Trumpton and then she was leaving. So they knew what she was going to say anyway.
I just hope that she thinks as highly of the loos in Upper Barrakka Gardens as we do but for what it's worth, the loos in the Fortification Centre are so much nicer and far fewer even know of their existence. Fewer still know about the lift access.
Surely, though, could they not have stayed at home, had a video conference, used their own loos and still have achieved no less?
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