“Derek Brangwyn Mordecai Spiteri, do you take Marie Isambard Dolores Gatt – this 60-something, fat, ugly divorcee with varicose veins and halitosis – to be your unlawful wedded wife?”

“I... hang on a minute. Did you say divorcee?”

“Yes I did.”

“So, Marie, you are divorced.”

“Three times.”

“Three times! Good God, you’re a one-woman marriage agency. You never mentioned this before.”

“Heqq! You never asked me before.”

“You said I would be your… only husband.”

“And so you will be… for now.”

“But this is Malta. You can’t get divorced here… yet.”

“I know. So I had it done abroad.”

“Abroad… where?”

“Ireland; they are also a Catholic country, but one that has divorce. I reckoned that if I had it done there, I would feel better about it. Anyway, I don’t know what you’re moaning about – you’re divorced yourself.”

“No! I am not! My marriage – my only previous marriage – was annulled. That’s a totally different thing.”

“Annulled? On what grounds?”

“Non-consummation of the marriage.”

“What? After six kids and four miscarriages? Don’t tell me they were all courtesy of the gas delivery man.”

“Er, excuse me sir, madam, can we get on with the civil marriage ceremony please? I have to catch a luzzu to Comino in 10 minutes; I’m performing an underwater wedding ceremony at the Blue Lagoon. Very tasteful – wet suits all round and waterproof bouquets.”

“Oh yeah right… sorry but, well, frankly I’m having second thoughts here.”

“You are having second thoughts! I’m contemplating telephoning the agency to ask for my money back.”

“Ha! Good luck sweetie. Not only do I just discover that I’m getting damaged goods...”

“Damaged goods!?”

“Very damaged goods. I also find out, to my great chagrin, that I’m about 15th in your line of seemingly never-ending who’s who of husbands, lovers and gigolos!”

“Sixteenth actually; but that was then, this is now.”

“My eyes have just been opened wide. How much money did you take those other poor idiots for?”

“Enough to enable me to tell you to get lost!”

“Marriage is a sacred bond between two people – a man and a woman.”

“You are beginning to sound like a priest or a divorce lawyer.”

“Well you should know, you’ve had plenty of experience of both.”

“Er, excuse me please sir, madam, sorry to interrupt your pre-nuptial punch-up but can we get on with it please? Time is money – I mean pressing – and whether you do decide to go through with the ceremony or not, you still have to settle my fee. Or maybe you’d prefer to take advantage of our 14-day suck it up and see package? Rather an unfortunate metaphor, I grant you, but it basically means a trial period. A bit like taking a pair of pyjamas on approval.”

“How does it work?”

“Very simple madam. You two shack-up… er, cohabit, for 14 days – and at the end of that time – if you are satisfied with the goods – er, arrangement, I submit the marriage licence to the authorities and you two become one – sort of.”

“Oh I don’t know about that. I wanted to marry you sweetie because you’ve got, well, big... and a time-share in Ibiza. Talk of trial periods takes all the romance out of it somehow.”

“I agree. ’Cos I wanted to get hitched to you because you’ve got a six-figure income and a massive… insurance policy that will naturally all come to me when you… ahem, pop off.”

“How sweet. So selfless and romantic, my little widow.”

“Yes it is, husband-to-be with the enormous… bank account and policy – with profits. Shall we – shall we go ahead with the wedding then?”

“Oh why not let’s!”

“Sorry to be a bore sir, madam, but I’ve just heard my luzzu is about to leave. If you still feel the same way in 24 hours you can make a further reservation online at our website: www.tiethenotasap.com. Must dash! Ciao!”

“Shall we bother?”

“Nar! Stuff him; let’s go and have a coffee at Cordina’s instead.”

“Much better idea.”