We walk, through Mdina, as so many others have done, the worn limestone, the cars taking up whole streets, the balmy air. There is talk of criminology, discourse analysis, marriage, lactose-intolerance. Someone is nearly run over by a reversing car.
We head back to St Julian’s and there are some nightclubs and groups of angular nut-brown teenagers smoking shisha pipes. It smells of apple, of cherry, of deodorant and post-modern adolescent, all the knowledge with the same unfettered desires and unrequited passions. It was torture, my time around, and I look at it like you might look at the Sun, blinking through nascent tears and a searing blockade of a decade of retreat and manoeuvre.
We drink a decaf on the balcony and I turn in for the night listening to hip-hop on my Sansa headphones. They make MP3s sound like a tape deck and I’m back in front of the AIWA taping John Peel.