I went to Malta for the weekend recently, as a break from a fortnight of deadlines, status reports and long hours that had drained my batteries. There was one street that didn’t let me forget where I had come from: each terraced house was named for a city.
Mostly though, I tried to leave work behind and focus on not screaming too loudly as I rode pillion on a red scooter, up a one-way triq and down another as we navigated the backroads.
It was warmer than back at home, even though the locals were in coats. The sensible locals, not the girls wearing hardly anything at all, leaning on walls outside curbside off-licences and drinking cheap alcohol before hitting the clubs of St Julian’s.
The island had seen severe storms just before I arrived. My hotel had suffered storm damage so their outside pool was closed – not that I had anticipated swimming outside at the end of October, not even in Malta. It didn’t start raining again until I was on the plane, looking out on to the damp tarmac. As if the weather had known I’d really needed a break from the office, and that rain wouldn’t have been part of the deal.
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