The Pondering Writer

  I wrote Notes from a Dinky Dunghill because I wanted to capture the Malta I know—not the polished, tourist-friendly version, but the real, gritty, funny, infuriating, and lovable island that shaped me. This book is a collection of stories, observations, and memories drawn from a lifetime of living on a sun-drenched rock in the middle of the Mediterranean. If you’re Maltese, I hope you’ll find something here that makes you nod, laugh, or maybe even wince in recognition. If you’re not, this book is your backstage pass—a way to experience the spirit of Malta from the inside. It’s not a guidebook; it won’t tell you where to eat or which beach to visit. Instead, it tells you what it feels like to live here: the quirks, the contradictions, the chaos, and the quiet moments that never make it onto postcards. You’ll read about noisy weddings, neighbourly spats, bizarre traditions, sacred food rituals, and the slow disappearance of old village life. But you’ll also find warmth, humour, a...

  Joe Milton, photographer by profession, immediately recognised Professor Reginald Weer’s gleaming Jaguar-F. He felt jittery as he headed towards the tearoom to meet his ex-professor and his wife. He had graduated from Stirling University a year before, but no steady job was in sight yet. So, despite resenting Weer’s despicable request, he had accepted to do it, but only for the money, mind you. With the hefty sum that Weer had promised him upon completion of the task, he would settle the considerable debt with his outraged landlord.             Weer looked like a fully-fledged aristocrat in his tweed shooting-coat and matching trousers. He was hissing at his wife over a small coffee table, his eyes glaring and contemptuous. The young woman had a doleful expression, and when she raised her watery eyes to look at her husband in the face, Joe’s heart missed a beat. She was the freckled version of Botticelli’s Venus. Joe swallowe...

  October               I have been living alone in Grandpa’s cabin for over a month now. The long days with golden sunsets have gradually faded, and the nights are getting longer and longer. Yesterday, when I turned on the satellite phone, I found three messages from Mum, asking me how I was. My reply was very dry: “I’m fine, don’t worry.” She had tried to dissuade me from embarking on my arctic pilgrimage to the island of Svalbard from the very start. She had told me that for a young woman like me, accustomed to living in a bustling city, that remote place would turn into a nightmare. She hated anything that reminded her of d ad. But the more she had discouraged me, the more my resolve had strengthened. For once, my two halves, the Norwegian and the Italian, had been in agreement. The Norwegian half had insisted that I should visit the land of my father’s ancestors, while the Italian half had hard-headedly wanted to sh...

Sandy Wright waited until the chitter-chatter of his students abated. “All right,” he said, “settle down!” He raised one eyebrow at the class and quickly the remaining hubbub fizzled out. “For the Christmas holidays, you have a short literature assignment. You are to write a 250-word paragraph about your favourite minor character from “The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe.”             A freckly-faced boy with a permanent gap-toothed grin raised his hand.             “Yes, Robbie,” said Wright, rolling up his eyes and sighing.             “When you say a minor character, Sir, do you mean one like Professor Digory Kirke?”             Most of the students giggled, while a couple laughed out loud.             Sandy ...