The holiday come down

I am shattered. Today, even my tiredness is tired.

To make matters worse, I had barely made it out of Bristol Airport and the horrible post holiday slump unfurled its tentacles. Even the poor chap at Immigration, who tried to engage me in light-hearted banter, got short shrift. Yes, I like Bristol okay, No, I don't want to settle in the UK and No, I do not want to discuss my reasons. Just stamp my bloody passport and be done with it, I wanted to yell.

However, I have Tamezepan and tonight I plan to send the exhaustion gremlin home at a stupidly early hour.

I promise to be in better spirits tomorrow - when I will bore you with pics of Gozo and Malta. Bet you can hardly wait...

Friday

Today we we visited Mdina, the hauntingly beautiful city that has been around since oh, about the 13^th Century. It looks as though it hasn't been dusted since.

But the weather was scorchio and we had a fantastic time. And, most importantly, as avowed Republicans, we managed to avoid THAT wedding. Although the cafe where we lunched was screening CNN (can someone tell me why a reporter of Anderson Cooper's calibre was reduced to covering such fripperies?) and I have to admit to a smile when I sighted the Sarah Burton-designed dress. Truly lovely, it was. It gives me hope that English women will now realise you DON'T have to get your tits out to look 'good'; that sometimes, just sometimes, discretion is the far classier option. Reporting on the dress, one reporter predicted that wedding dresses everywhere will be sporting long sleeves from now on. Hmmm, he's obviously never been to Bristol.

In other news, today I discovered traditional Maltese 'bones' cakes which are pretty much the lovechild of lemon drizzle cake and almond paste. They are now my new best friends. So much so, I am starting to think about elasticated trousers in a good way...

Malta

I do not like boats. And I particularly don't like boats that are skippered by lunatics who deliberately hit every wave and introduce my stomach to my throat.

Yesterday we left the sleepy island of Gozo and ferried back to mainland Malta. And despite a crossing rougher than Katie Price's accent, I managed to hold onto most of my breakfast.

I am missing island time, the manana approach to getting things done and the belief that stress happens someplace else. Oh and the slightly bonkers twin sisters who ran the pensione and liked to serve calorific cakes for breakfast (yesterday I sidestepped the eggs and toast entirely and had a slice of chocolate mud cake).

Our home for the next few nights is a nondescript hotel in Silema, full of pasty Brits and Germans with an unnerving fondness for polyster, and none of the charm of our Gozitian pensione. But if I was to put on my Pollyanna hat – and I must – then at least there is lots to do here and an abundance of shops capable of leaching the euros from my wallet.

And it's still better than the alternative – being in Bristol and at work.

Rain

It's not supposed to rain on Mediterranean islands: the guidebooks don't mention it, the glossy brochures don't suggest it and the PR chicks pretend it doesn't happen.

But this morning it rained fat, warm drops that seemed determined to screw with our day's activity. By late morning, we had tired of our room and our paperbacks, so skipped between the puddles to visit the island's famous salt pans. Fortunately, we only had to seek shelter in a cafe once and the pain was alleviated by cups of thick Maltese coffee and slabs of fresh almond and orange cake.

Speaking of food, Mama's dinner last night was superb: salad, potatoes and fish so fresh it had probably crawled out of the sea minutes earlier. And to finish, a ricotta cheesecake that was so delicious I immediately demanded the recipe. Like their Italian neighbours, they take their kai seriously here. So it would be churlish to refuse. I'm grateful it hasn't quite reached beach temperatures, because I fear I might be mistaken for a whale and harpooned accordingly.

I must now get a wiggle on for that most civilised of Mediterranean traditions: the siesta. Oh that the rest of the world would embrace this practice...

Gozo

I had hoped to make my Southern Hemisphere friends hate me with the heat of a thousand suns by publishing pics of us cavorting in glorious Mediterranean spring weather.

Alas, the Animator forgot the thingy that converts his photos from raw footage to normal pics so there shall be no photos until we get back.

Words will have to do: Easter Sunday and Monday have passed pleasantly. We have only been on the cute-as-a-button Maltese island of Gozo for a day and already we have met the local restaurant/vineyard owning mafia and dined with a dodgy Australian mining scion who may, or may not, have been on the run from the authorities.

Today we played chicken with the traffic when we walked to the capital, Victoria (or Rabat, as the locals prefer) where we clambered over a 14th Century citadel, saw wild globe artichokes the size of bread plates and made the acquaintance of some local dogs at the aforementioned vineyard.

The only downside has been the spring breezes which are playing havoc with the Animator's hay fever. Dispensing some much-needed medication, a pharmacist told us that the wind was coming from nearby Libya, bringing with it dust and pollen. It's a shock to realise just how close we are to that troubled nation.

Tonight, the Mama of the charmingly run-down pensione we are staying at has invited us to dinner. She has promised us fresh fish, salad and pasta. To say I am excited is like saying Pavarotti was partial to carbs. Particularly as this is the same woman who served the Animator a wedge of her delicious Tiramasu for breakfast. Holiday decadence at its best.

I'm leaving on a jet plane

This isn't a good time if you dislike the Monarchy (or harbour the slightest anti-Establishment streak).

Britain has gone wedding crazy: the nation seems more obsessed with what the dress will look like and whether she will wear her hair up or down than the fact that the body count in Misrata is rising, the economy is melting faster than Arctic ice and hot cross buns seem to have shrunk. Bluddy hell, I once worked as a fashion journo and even I don't give a toss about whether the dress features flounces or frills, is ivory or white or is the mother of all meringues. Seriously, where do people find the energy to care?

It's estimated that 66 percent of Brits will celebrate the occasion by taking part in street parties next Friday, and the nation is currently so awash with bleeding Union Jacks it's like living in a BNP rally.

Along with two million others, we are fleeing the madness. We fly to Malta at a ridiculously early hour tomorrow morning. This is why air travel was invented.

The one where my eyebrows reach my hairline

I may not be as whip-smart as I'd like to think I am. And years of rubbish sleep patterns and excessive self-medicating with red wine have no doubt hacked away at my brain cells.

But even I am in awe at the buffoonery that envelopes me in its embrace every single day. One of the downsides of this interweb thing is that you have to be careful how much you reveal - we all know about the blogger who was sacked for having an online rant about her boss. So let's keep it as vague as possible: I recently had dealings with a company where being young, good looking and exposing as much cleavage as possible was more highly valued than having a surfeit of grey matter.

Case in point: I had the extreme misfortune of meeting one blonde bimbette who uttered so many inanities, she truly raised the WTF? factor to a whole new level. A smattering of her cerebral gems included:

- "Where is the Thames? I think it runs past my house" (the fact that this chick is from Wales makes that a distinct impossibility)

- "What's an artichoke?" (presumably they don't have them in Wales)

- "What day was last week?" (can I please throw sharp objects at her?)

And we won't even get into her dress sense, which made me question the clarity of mirrors in her household (and which branch of 'Sluts R Us' she shopped at).

Still, as a very dear friend pointed out, at least she provided the boys with cheap thrills and the rest of us with a regular chuckle. A couple of us even started a competition to see which of the various office girls (sorry, they didn't deserve to be called women) most dressed like a whore each day; no surprises that my dumb-as-a-post 'acquaintance' assumed pole position A LOT.

Just before I put away the claws, I had to share this nugget from a woman who must surely be in the running for Idiot Laureate. Mariah Carey is preggers with twins and in an interview with US Life & Style magazine had this to say about the birth process: "I feel like I'm bringing two individuals into the world." She feels like it?? Hate to break it to you M, but there actually ARE two bubs in your puku. Which means, drumroll please, that you ARE bringing two individuals into the world.

As the Guardian so eloquently put it: "Hope she doesn't freak out when they come out with no clothes on either. That's how it's supposed to happen".

Now I am going to go out and wander the streets of Clifton where the strong scent of wisteria will mess with my head (and my hay fever). Your desire that I return less of a bitch will, sadly, remain unfulfilled.