London calling - Back to grey
After weeks of packing bags and catching planes, Joe Fountain is still not happy to be back in the city
My five weeks of roaming around came to an end last Monday, when I flew back from Ibiza in the very early hours of the morning, with barely enough time to get showered and make my way to work. To be honest, in spite of spending all of Tuesday in bed, I've not quite recovered yet. My room looks more and more like a bombsite, with piles of clothes, books and bits of paper all over the place. My big task for the weekend, in fact, is to bring it all back to some form of normality. Oh, and did I tell you? Outside, it's still grey, wet and miserable!
The weekend in Ibiza was - as would be expected - perfection. Even if there are a thousand and one bad things to be said about the island and its inhabitants, at the end of the day, it's still got something magical that makes you forget the ridiculousness of the prices (one of our party paid €60 to get into Amnesia) or the awfulness of some of the people who visit it (if I'd not known what I was going in for, I would have gone back on the same plane.)
At 8 p.m. on Sunday evening, not quite recovered from my only concession to the dance floor (Space on Saturday morning, still the best, I'm happy to say), I was lying on a sun bed at Salinas beach, with the sound of the waves making their way up to the shore, as the sun made its way to its spectacular descent into the Mediterranean to the island's north side. As people made their way home, I lay there seething with envy because within 24 hours I would be sitting on a train on my way home from a day at work. In my fantasy head, I often think of giving it all up and moving here to sell pareos on a beach.
I've done nothing but work, eat and sleep since coming back. I've tried to find some solace in Victoria Beckham's fly on the wall about arriving in LA (dull) and the fact that seven members of the new cabinet have admitted to smoking cannabis - and said they regret doing it (pathetic) but nothing is quite doing it. It must be a serious case of Post Holiday Depression - I feel so apathetic that I've even extended this week's deadline to Friday! Even then, getting out of bed this morning to write this was a chore. It took the awful sounds of the building site next door to get me out of bed.
One of the things that did manage to stir some interest in me this week was Arnold Cassola's letter on behalf of AD to this newspaper asking for the Xaghra l-Hamra natural park to be renamed after the late Julian Manduca. What a good idea that would be! If there ever was one Maltese person whose name should have been celebrated, then Julian's it was, and nowhere would be more appropriate for our most forward thinking environmentalist that a nature park. If there's a petition going, please someone let me know so I can sign it. If there isn't one, then someone should think of getting one going.
The weekend in Ibiza was - as would be expected - perfection. Even if there are a thousand and one bad things to be said about the island and its inhabitants, at the end of the day, it's still got something magical that makes you forget the ridiculousness of the prices (one of our party paid €60 to get into Amnesia) or the awfulness of some of the people who visit it (if I'd not known what I was going in for, I would have gone back on the same plane.)
At 8 p.m. on Sunday evening, not quite recovered from my only concession to the dance floor (Space on Saturday morning, still the best, I'm happy to say), I was lying on a sun bed at Salinas beach, with the sound of the waves making their way up to the shore, as the sun made its way to its spectacular descent into the Mediterranean to the island's north side. As people made their way home, I lay there seething with envy because within 24 hours I would be sitting on a train on my way home from a day at work. In my fantasy head, I often think of giving it all up and moving here to sell pareos on a beach.
I've done nothing but work, eat and sleep since coming back. I've tried to find some solace in Victoria Beckham's fly on the wall about arriving in LA (dull) and the fact that seven members of the new cabinet have admitted to smoking cannabis - and said they regret doing it (pathetic) but nothing is quite doing it. It must be a serious case of Post Holiday Depression - I feel so apathetic that I've even extended this week's deadline to Friday! Even then, getting out of bed this morning to write this was a chore. It took the awful sounds of the building site next door to get me out of bed.
One of the things that did manage to stir some interest in me this week was Arnold Cassola's letter on behalf of AD to this newspaper asking for the Xaghra l-Hamra natural park to be renamed after the late Julian Manduca. What a good idea that would be! If there ever was one Maltese person whose name should have been celebrated, then Julian's it was, and nowhere would be more appropriate for our most forward thinking environmentalist that a nature park. If there's a petition going, please someone let me know so I can sign it. If there isn't one, then someone should think of getting one going.