Sometimes when I’m out and about in my non-working life, people in passing ask what I do for a living. There’s usually three kinds of reactions when you say ‘journalist’.
Reaction 1: “I can’t stand f****** journalists! Let me tell you what they f****** did to me once…”
Reaction 2: “Haha, tas-CNN mela, are you hiding a camera behind your back?”
Reaction 3: “Really, now. Which newspaper and what’s your name again?”
And sometimes, with the third reaction, there’d be a spark of vague name recognition. Invariably the conversation that ensues is like this:
Curious person: “No! You cannot be Kristina Chetcuti.”
Me: “Erm, I’m afraid I am.”
Curious person: “No! I read her columns. She is younger than you”
Curious person [again “No, you definitely can’t be her. She is livelier/more adventurous/jollier/has curly black hair/is always carrying her daughter is a sling.”
Me: [shuffling, looking at my feet apologetically, trying to strike a Tomb Raider pose, while attempting to look jollier and less wrinklier] “Erm, sorry.”
Me: [mumble, mumble] “But, erm, actually my daughter is almost eight now, she can almost carry me.”
It’s odd the way we form our opinion of people. They could be Angelina Jolie or Brad Pitt or Kate Middleton (I had to mention them, the Daily Mail told us they’re the only topic of discussion in Malta), but we still base our first impressions on the most peculiar things.
Shoes and socks. More specifically white shoes, white boots, beige shoes, slip-on shoes, white socks and white towelling socks worn under a suit.
For us, a ċertifikat is worth as much as a brass plaque by the side of your door
Eyebrows. Women with eyebrows so arched that they must use a protractor to get the exact degree of archness; and men with plucked eyebrows – they both tick the black box. An aside here: what’s it with most men? Why are they shaping their eyebrows? We had workmen over the other day, no builder’s bum and belly in sight, instead, they all had immaculate eyebrows and, as they heaved and huffed carrying heavy stuff, they discussed waxing, facials and moisturisers.
Shirt collars opened over a jacket’s lapels.
Men wearing a man bag. What do they put in it? It’s not as if they need to carry sanitary towels. What’s wrong with chucking a mobile phone and a wallet in the trousers’ pocket? Laptop bag okay; man bag not okay.
Men in red trousers. Red trousers are only acceptable for the older generation of Maltese people who are more British than the Brits, who speak with a toffish Received Pronunciation, who are beloved of aristocracy and who generally pair their red trousers with brass button blazers and €500 loafers.
Women wearing salmon blouses. Pinky salmon reminds of a packet of biscuits my sister once scoffed, then proceeded to throw up, while sitting next to me in a stuffy coach.
Drooping handshake. Even if that person crosses the Atlantic in one day, saves a group of Japanese tourists from a grizzly bear and has the photos to prove it, then single-handedly stops a tsunami coming Malta’s way, it won’t matter because all I’ll be thinking is: “Well, yes but your handshake is lame and weak, which means that deep down there’s something wrong with you.”
White gooey stuff. The kind which sometimes people get at the corners of mouth. I’m not too harsh on this – because I empathise – occasionally, when I speak, I do get a spit bubble. So normally I offer a glass of water and reset my first impression check list.
Toupées. It’s just that I cannot, for the life of me, focus on what that person is saying: I just sit there and worry about possible sudden gusts of winds.
People who hang their degree certificate on their sitting room wall. This is a tricky one, because of our ‘Dak Bravu and He’s Got the Certificate to Prove It’ culture. So for us, a ċertifikat is worth as much as a brass plaque by the side of your door. I can’t take to people who hang up their BA (Gen) or PGCE scrolls for us to see the minute we walk into their home because they would be the type who stuff a napkin in their collar so as not to slob on their shirts.
Of course, none of these impressions are insurmountable and there have been instances where I’ve made exceptions. I have very dear friends of mine who wear red trousers or patterned socks – or shock horror – have a trophy room full of certificates, but it takes time to wean myself off the initial shock.
The good thing is that now, when I’ll be going queasy at the sight of a pink salmon blouse, any Curious Person can say: “You’re not so young, and you’re not carrying a toddler in a sling, but yes, you are Kristina Chetcuti.”
krischetcuti@gmail.com
Twitter: @KrisChetcuti