As you can imagine, there haven’t been many moments in my life where I’ve been lost for words. In fact, my father always tells me that one day I’m going to die trying to get the last word in. What I can’t state through logic, I usually convey through wit or sarcasm. My friends say I should do stand-up, and today, standing up is what I’m going to be doing, though maybe not in the way they intended.
I’m writing this next to a rain-spattered window; there’s a burning candle next to me and I’m all bundled up in a quilt. I suppose from the grey outside I must look particularly Dickensian. Maybe in another life, I could have been a Miss Havisham, save for the fact that at this stage in my life I’m not silly enough to weep over a man while wearing a wedding gown; I’d probably just catch a flight to Jamaica instead. I’ve always hated Octobers in Malta because I find them so undecided and inconsistent: I suppose in some ways they mirror us as a people. Nowadays, I have another reason to dislike them.
It’s been two years since Daphne Caruana Galizia walked out of her house and unto her death. I’ve never been good at Maths but I think that 730 days is an awfully long time for the truth...
