It's probably been the most stifling day of the year thus far. It's certainly been the hottest-felt one by me, partly because, having succumbed to what 'Er calls my post-mid-life crisis, I've started riding a motor-bike again - perching above a 660cc power-plant is conducive to a sensation of standing outside an oven door that is rapidly outstripping the freedom of being on two wheels again.
But the stifling night and the expectations built up by the consistent recommendations that I beg, borrow or steal a ticket for Ospizio did not combine to produce a result that would have been not unexpected. I was quite prepared not to be amazed and to come away from Floriana with an over-infusion of disappointment, but it was not to be.
In other words, people, this was a performance that demanded, were it not for the fact that we were standing already (for most of the time anyway) a standing ovation.
Theatre Anon has taken one of the three pillars of fun (the other two being drugs and rock'n'roll - I hope concern for the resurgence, temporary as it will happily be, of the hide-bound forces of conservatism won't force my editor to remove my flippancy) and stuck it into a vaguely historical context.
They then added some (but only some) slap-stick and plenty of excellent acting, and funky sounds (stand up the Big Band Brothers) and wove into the mix a very strong dose of anti-clericalism and irreverence towards the Establishment. I wonder if the - stand up when you mention their names, lest you show lese majeste - Board of Censors noticed.
Commissioned by the Malta Arts Festival, designed by Pierre Portelli with the collaboration of Claire Azzopardi, the show lasted about as long as a World Cup game (without turgid extra time and penalties) but was many hundreds of times more rewarding.
No yellow cards (and certainly no red) were handed out for Oranje thuggishness or lousy acting - in fact, if I might hoist a notional couple of bouquets across, I'd aim at Narcy Calamatta and Louiselle Vassallo, though it is almost invidious to name only them when their colleagues put up an equally good show.
It's too late for you to go, the run is over: next time, pay attention.
The lousiest World Cup in my memory, and it stretches back to the last time the English actually played some football, prevented me from attending as many of the performances put on as part of the Victoria International Arts Festival as I have become used to. It was also the reason I totally didn't mention it while it was on, which makes this particular mention nothing more than a respectful - but heartfelt nonetheless - congratulations to Joseph Vella and his collaborators, notably Maria Frendo, for managing, for yet another year, to put together a programme of some 33 performances in just over a month in and around the Basilica of San Ġorġ.
I'm eschewing the temptation to write about vote-buying and gullible politicians, or about divorce and this peculiar notion that the great but sweaty unwashed has the right to dictate to me or to you or to that poor couple over the bridge how to regulate their civil contract of marriage. There's my blog for that, at some point.
But I couldn't ignore the perennial impoverishment of the trading classes, who seem to have this idea that whenever something is done that inconveniences them (or that they are told inconveniences them) the government, which is to say you and I, has to compensate them.
Forget about such strange ideas as providing a competitive and - heaven forfend - pleasant customer experience: you, the consumer, should almost be forced at gunpoint to march into the nearest shop and buy your needs there, if you can find someone to serve you without snapping at you.
Forget, too, about shopping online instead (with virtually next-day delivery from Amazon, though not if Fedex are involved) and don't give a thought to the idea that Valletta, when the works are done, will be a pretty fine town again.
No, just put your hand in your wallet and hand over cash to Vince Farrugia's members, in exchange for goods and services, hopefully.
I'd not like to end a pretty positive piece on a negative note, so I'll run through the places where we got good service and value for money last weekend, none of which are new to you. La Terrazza in Xlendi excelled itself and its location (which is quite a feat) on Saturday, while on Friday Sicilia Bella (Mġarr, Gozo) confirmed, on our sixth visit in as many weeks, pretty much, that although they are almost as bad at footy as the English, in the more important things in life, the Italians excel.
Just to make a hat-trick out of it, Sunday lunch at Otters was also pretty darn good: not all our weekends are like this and it's part of my self-imposed mission to guide you anyway.
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