For an island that is literally stamp-size, there’s too much wrong with Malta. We really don’t have a leg to stand on because if we each got hold of a broom, this little rock could really rock. There is so much going for this island – perhaps too much for our own good.

For the longest time I have wanted to write about the scandalous state of our roads, the even more scandalous state of our pavements; and the garbage situation, which I believe presents the biggest stink of them all. Our roads aren’t going anywhere and neither is our garbage apparently.

It’s really not how I wanted to end the year. There’s something about the last article of the year that calls for something special. You really don’t want to be talking about the shoddy state of our island and its roads at Christmas time.

I am so very rarely condemnatory and militant anyway, preferring to tell stories to people, rather than at them, that somehow it seems almost incongruous, out of place – definitely out of season.

But I’m all written out of Christmas. So you’re getting the trashy story – the one about our garbage and the infrastructure we don’t seem to have. When all those millions were being thrown around in the wake of the Renzo Piano project, the whole thing reminded me so much of the little pig who built his house out of hay.

And all the while I couldn’t help thinking, ‘why bother spending €80 million on a Valletta regeneration project when the rest of the island looks the way it does?’

To me, it’s the hygiene equivalent of a Mexican shower – spraying on expensive cologne or perfume without taking a real shower, in an attempt to camouflage funky body odour. Or spending a small fortune on red-soled Christian Louboutin peep-toe pumps when the rest of your wardrobe has Oxfam written all over it.

When you’re wearing luminous spandex, tight leopard Lycra or crushed velvet you don’t suddenly go from being Kat Slater to Grace Kelly because you happen to be wearing a great pair of shoes.

Please don’t misunderstand me. My love affair with Valletta began before Piano’s did. I would never begrudge a sou that went towards improving our capital city but I am not even sure that matters anymore.

Malta is an aesthetic mess. It looks great in pictures, yes. And some parts are indeed wonderful and still make me feel heady and incredibly proud.

But the Malta I live in and inhabit, the Malta that hits me every day when I drive to and from work or that welcomes me when I get off the plane and drive back home is shabby. And that is being kind.

True, I live in Sliema, which I believe has got to be the worst as far as roads and pavements go. I won’t bore you with the details of my driving route here but it roughly (operative word) involves getting from Sliema to Valletta and back via one of three alternatives. And trust me when I tell you that neither is smooth.

Buildings are haphazard at best, with absolutely no respect for symmetry, no regard for continuity as far as style, height, colour scheme, planning and general design.

Then there are the ubiquitous electricity cables and wires dangling overhead.

The roads are lumpy and potholed – a patchwork and mismatch of materials, put together in fits and starts designed to kill and maim.

It’s the same with the uneven jagged pavements littered with makeshift garbage bags which are never closed properly and leave litter trails trail behind, which makes walking through a foul experience and near impossibility.

Places like Ta’ Qali remain a mystery. On every occasion, I create my own version of Bob Dylan’s Blowing in the Wind and wonder how many more times I will have to drive through before the government realises that this is a road people actually use.

Perhaps we may need to wait till someone dies there before lighting, paving and some semblance of structure materialises.

Whenever I fly back to Malta and see a plane full of tourists I hold my breath and wonder whether they will see what I see. Although if ‘Quotes on a Small Island’ in the Travel section of The Sunday Times is anything to go by, it appears many don’t.

Perhaps, for the same reasons that when I think back to Rome, Paris and more recently, Bologna, I don’t recall the garbage.

Even the most beautiful cities undoubtedly have their ugly side. Most, perhaps, are big enough to successfully conceal their squalor from the critical eyes of travellers.

In Munich, I distinctly remember seeing children riding scooters to and from school, on pavements as wide as our roads. I remember being struck by the trees and the cleanliness. I remember thinking ‘where do these people keep their garbage?’

I remember vowing I would return to Munich. But then I suppose there are people who keep coming back here.

Which actually makes me even angrier. Because just imagine how much stronger our pulling power would be if were more conscientious. We’re too small for complacency.

Why don’t more villages look like Mdina? Why aren’t the beaches and the countryside areas cleaned up and rendered tasteful and user friendly?

Imagine a regenerated Pietà with more trees and less traffic, the houses set off from the main thoroughfare. Imagine trees in Malta, period.

We could start by hanging onto the original architectural rhythm and patina that belong to our streets, our doors, our balconies instead of destroying them to make way for the horrid cacophony of modern slums we have created.

And taking out the garbage on Saturday afternoon when Sunday and even Monday happen to be holidays is not cool, even if you can get away with it.

Perhaps everyone’s garbage bag should come with a name tag on it. Yes, I think much of what is wrong with Malta are probably the Maltese.

Merry Christmas to you and yours.

michelaspiteri@gmail.com