I’m always hung over at this time of year, but not from alcohol. Drink has never been my thing, and if anything, social drinking is something I should learn to enjoy more. Life doubtless becomes rosier after downing Jägerbomb shots (aka Jager-Bomb, pronounced ‘Yayga-Bomb’): an awful, syrupy, cough-mixture-like concoction with the kick of a mule or a (red) bull.

My ‘tipple’ – my addiction, if you like – is my home. Within its four walls, the hangover is existential, manifesting itself physically in oversized pyjama pants, dressing-gown and socks. Thus attired, I delay real life – ‘going out’ – for as long as I can, and drink copious amounts of tea instead.

That’s who I am during the first week of the new year. I feel as if I’ve just given birth and entered a chamber of postpartum timelessness where morning suddenly becomes night until you realise you haven’t stirred for three whole days.

It’s a world of unwashed hair, unread newspapers and still unbroken resolutions. And when you do finally emerge, on January 4, it all feels slightly unreal, as if you’ve been gone for longer and returned to a new era, not just a new year. Which is why writing at this time of the year isn’t easy. I’m not prepared to sound like one of those wordy ‘inspirational’ (but rather irritating) Susan Polis Shultz greeting cards, and neither do I want to rehash the year that was (which was quite a year, and is probably better left alone, unlamented).

There’s always the hope that the Prime Minister will once again oblige by making a speech in someone’s kitchen – the perfect copy for New Year’s Day. The writing, it turned out in 2016, was definitely on that kitchen wall, and it was all kitchen metaphors and utensils too: frying pans and fry-ups everywhere destined for the fire. I have no idea where Joseph Muscat delivered his speech this year, which is probably a good thing.

Instead of telling you about my New Year resolutions, which I normally make up along the way (what’s the hurry?) I’ll tell you what I’d like to see finally resolved in Malta this year. It’s litter – my number one bugbear. Sorting this in 2017 will certainly be more achievable than cleaning up poli­tics. I noticed that the subject even made it to a column in the UK Sunday Times on New Year’s Day.

If obscure and unheeded Wrexham can hack it, then I’m pretty sure that cleaning up a tiny country, albeit with a larger profile, should be a cinch

Yes, in off-the-radar Wrexham, north Wales, litter is being addressed very seriously. A recent litter-blitz has seen that council collecting more money in fines from discarded cigarette butts than parking infringements – in fact, more than £30,000 a month. I’m sure our councils could put that sort of money to use.

It has been controversial, with the inevitable bleating and murmurings of ‘The Litter Stasi’. If one must bring up Germany, I am reminded of Jeremy Clarkson’s own take on the litter and cigarette-butt situation of his own country, when he compared the UK unfavourably with the hard-to-beat Germans after visiting a small town in the Bavarian Alps with a guttural-sounding name:

“I noticed that… there was no litter. By which I mean none at all. And because there was none, I had no clue what to do with my cigarette end. Simply tossing it away would have been like taking a dump in the middle of Somerset House skating rink. I was therefore forced by custom and example to extinguish it in a flowerbed and then put the butt in a passing American’s rucksack… what’s wrong with living in a country where it is inconceivable that someone would drop a plastic coffee stirrer in the street?”

It’s not surprising that Clarkson believes the Germans should be put permanently in charge of the EU!

My main preoccupation is that Clarkson’s cigarette butts and coffee stirrers would feel very at home on our streets – my streets anyway, where banana skins, apple cores and soiled nappies perch on top of open garbage bags 10 hours before pick-up time, and where recycling dumpsters are always so full you have either to go home with your paper and cardboard or succumb to the temptation of littering nearby.

The Clarkson experience also proves the point that wake-up calls come easier when the place is clean to begin with. The calls have now got to be heard here in Malta. For that reason, I’d welcome Wrexham-style zero tolerance and German fastidiousness.

Then again, I am not against common sense when it comes to innocuous parking offences like forgetting to display a clock in a two-hour zone. Wardens should not automatically assume you’ve overstayed and should at least afford you the courtesy of returning two hours later before imposing a fine.

But back to litter. Yes, I can imagine the disapproving chorus of all those who have selfishly and mindlessly littered our streets and countryside for decades. How dare they claim ‘rights’ when they trash our own.

Admittedly, things are slowly improving, but we still have a long way to go. Perhaps, with Malta assuming the presidency of the EU and with Valletta 18 around the corner, we’ll finally clean up our act. But I’m not holding my breath.

And yet, if obscure and unheeded Wrexham can hack it, then I’m pretty sure that cleaning up a tiny country, albeit with a larger profile, should be a cinch. After all, we’re deemed big enough and competent enough to take the helm of a ship of 500 million souls.

Like it or not, we’re in the limelight, and that limelight will be pretty bright. The litter will show, as will other blemishes: those souk-like kiosks, for instance, or their threatened reincarnations nearby, which have for too long degraded the entrance to our historic capital city.

michelaspiteri@gmail.com

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