It is, indeed, the city that never sleeps. At the ungodly hour of any time of the night, you can hear flipping great trucks clattering around, uploading the previous day's detritus or offloading supplies to create the next day's. You can listen in - if you are so inclined - on the polite discourse of ladies of the night as they debate between themselves the merits and demerits of the argument they are proposing to each other, while in the background, exemplars of New York's finest charge around on their horseless noise-makers, supplying sonic highlights to the tapestry of sound that assaults your ears all the time.

It's an amazing city, more alive than even London, dirtier than Rome, more enriched by the arts than Paris and with a landscape, human and architectural, that defies the imagination.

You can eat anything you like, at any time you like, and you can eat as much as you like and then some and then some more. When you ask for a steak, the response is: "Yes, sir, and which half of the cow would you like?" And they're not kidding. Onion rings come in a tower that Mepa would debate on for about four years before allowing anyone to build it in Pender Place and if you want spuds, order a single side order, because even that is enough for four and then four more.

It goes without saying that service is attentive to the point of verging on the annoying - almost, but not quite. No sooner does your sit-upon land upon your to-be-sat-upon than a server is pouring a glass of cold water for you, and it will more than likely be kept topped up throughout the meal. What are the odds that a Maltese restaurateur would even contemplate the idea of letting you have water for free? What, and risk you not spending your hard-earned on some rubbish bottle of mineral water?

Of course, let's not be naïve, your service is good because the people doing the serving depend on your tip to make a decent income - fat chance of this ever catching on here, though, can you imagine the fuss the social partners would make?

We spent nigh on 18 days in New York, with a mid-stay sojourn in Washington, and the more artistically inclined in our party (the Shes who Must be Obeyed, you will not be surprised to learn) managed to visit something in the order of 21 or so art museums, not to mention an uncounted number of art galleries. Some of the museums were visited twice, too. We also managed to take in three plays, two musicals, one opera (where we were proud to spot Joseph Calleja's name among the artistes who ply their trade at the Metropolitan Opera, on the same page as Placido Domingo), one performance by the Blue Man Group (they defy description) and one jazz performance. We also did all the tourist things, such as freezing at the top of the Empire State and going round the harbour and walking our feet down to stubs (I exaggerate somewhat - the taxis are reasonable).

And there you have it, as promised, a quick run-down of our trip, the reason why you were denied the ineffable pleasure of my company for a couple of Saturdays. It was a great trip, thank you for asking (and if you don't care, well, tough). For all the fun the rest of us poke at the United States, it is a great country, with pretty great people too (leaving aside certain occupants of that large white building on Pennsylvania Avenue). I don't know if it's because it's a young country but - and this is the mother of all generalisations - the people are almost child-like in their enthusiasm and their innate politeness. They even go crazy about comfort food, which explains plenty.

Those bags

Also as promised, here follows the saga of our bags, which British Airways, the world's favourite airline (so they say themselves) managed to misplace somewhere between here and JFK.

Now, these are things that happen and I'm not generally the type of person who issues a press release because his bags got delayed. Even if the darn things are completely lost and forever, that's why insurance exists, so you would be forgiven if you were to ask "what's the fuss all about, Beck?" as I do when I spot one of those letters which the whingers and the moaners write to all the papers whenever their bag full of dirty knickers finds its way to where they're not.

What got my goat, however, was the fact that we were given absolutely no information about what's what and where's where when it came to these flipping bags. The friendly folk at Baggage Services at Terminal 7 of JFK were perfectly efficient when it came to taking our details (they've seen it all before, of course) and they gave us not one but two numbers on which to call in order to make enquiries as to the whereabouts of our clothes.

The problem was, on one of the numbers, you were regaled with the dulcet tones of some New Yorker telling you that no one is available to answer your call, while on the other line, a computer makes you punch buttons in order to get told, at the end of it, that there is no news about your bag.

The upshot of it all was that we had to buy some clothes, as even New Yorkers tend to draw the line at people going around with smelly undies, and since we didn't know how long we were going to spend with the emergency togs adorning us, and since we didn't want to spend every morning at Bloomies buying another set of essentials, we had to buy quite a bit.

You guessed it - no sooner had we got ourselves a supply of some reasonable size than the bags started trickling back, although Bill Gates's voice was still telling us that there was no news of any great pith and moment to impart to us. Most annoying.

I hasten to add that it was not British Airways in Malta that ignored the three e-mails I sent on the matter - the local rep called me first thing on Monday, after my hint about my spilling the beans was dropped and he was the epitome of customer service values. It's a pity his counterparts in other parts of the world aren't the same - they still haven't answered me.

Same oh same oh

As I tap this stuff out, I'm watching with my other eye the training match that England and Spain are having. Up to the 40th minute of the first half, Spain have had one chance and England another, both of which were missed by a country mile. Half time looms, at which point everyone but the referee will be changed, making the match even less meaningful than it is already.

In fact, it's now half time, so I can switch over to the Miriam Gauci concert with the National Orchestra on Mezzo, which is certainly more entertaining, not to mention vastly more skilful.

From what I hear, Dr Wenzu Mintoff and Mr Lou Bondì had a match of their own on Tuesday of a very much more committed nature, with the former barking quite loudly at the latter who, it was reported to me, somewhat lost his cool. I've no idea what it was they were slagging each other off about, though I'm told that the subject of the programme was Character Assassination, which was mildly ironic, but I have to wonder aloud what it was about which Dr Mintoff was thinking, if he thought that, as a newly-anointed MLP big shot, it was a good idea for him to come over all tough with the media.

Still, being a tough guy seems to be quite the thing with MLP chaps - if they don't like the figures you produce, for example, they tend to get on your case a bit. Ask Gordon Cordina.

While on the subject of peculiar moves for politicians, can anyone illuminate me on what possessed the Hon. Parl. Sec. for Justice to have a couple of reams of court files taken to his office? It's not a matter of particular importance, of course, and it goes without saying that nothing sinister was intended (he couldn't really be sinister if he tried) but laying himself open to the outraged squeaks and whimpers of his political opponents was hardly a clever move, now, was it? After all, it's not as if he couldn't imagine that some little weasel wouldn't rat him out (not bad, two rodents in one sentence) or that the little molehill (is a mole a rodent? I think not) would be turned into a mountain by the other side (which it was).

These things sure don't help ensure that Joe and Josephine Public, bless their little cotton socks, get to feel all warm and cuddly about the way justice is administered in this country.

You great villain

On Friday, we were privileged to have managed to get some seats at the Manoel to watch Steven Berkoff bring a few of Shakespeare's villains to life. The man is a genius, if I, a mere apostate (after all, I'm not an academic, I haven't been a teacher for 20 years and a head teacher for 10 and I haven't been heaped with accolades from other pillars of academe) may be allowed to venture the thought.

We had a good dinner at D'Agostino's afterwards, if my opinion counts for anything, since I am nothing but a mere scribbler without any qualifications or training in anything of importance.

In case you were wondering, the last couple of cracks were directed to the pompous oaf who thought it would be fun to despatch a series of insulting e-mails in my general direction last week.

imbocca@gmail.com