Andrè Zammit writes:

I had known Wilfrid for ages. When we lived in Valletta and, as a teenager, I used to go to the Saturday afternoon dances at the Overseas League, I always looked out for his mother chaperoning her pretty daughters whom I rather fancied. Wilfrid would wander to the billiards table where he was a wizard with the cue. I just looked on in amazement.

We would occasionally play tennis together, where I had a very slight edge.

Wilfrid always came to me with problems about property, which I tried to sort out as best I could. He was a model client and I always looked on him as a friend rather than a client. Once, I had a bit of a wrangle with a lawyer – a legal adviser of this newspaper – who was having an unfair advantage over me through early access to my correspondence and he could choose the time it was printed. Wilfrid spoke to the editor and insisted on fair play.

At one time, we were at Tigné Beach and I was complaining how swiftly time passed. “I am past 50,” I said. “So am I,” Wilfrid replied. “And four months,” I added. “So am I,” Wilfrid rejoined. “And 11 days,” I went on. “Don’t tell me you were born on March 30, 1930”. “So I was,” I retorted. “In the afternoon,” I went on. Wilfrid could not remember the exact time, so we always said he was older by an hour or so!

We always called one another “Ix-xiħ”.

We both had three sons and a daughter and, for a time, our wives played tennis together.

Subsequent research showed that the late President Emeritus Ċensu Tabone was also born on March 30 and so were Vincent van Gogh and Celine Dion.

There must be something special about that day. Wilfrid was certainly special. Very special.