Baking white pizza

That's how I spent my weekend.

Saturday morning I woke up planning to do one million things. It's like that with every end of the week. Not that I labour much during weekdays, I mean I spend it doing what I have been doing for the past ten years: talking about Maltese literature to young people who are most probably not interested in it. Anyhow, I have to make a living, right? It's not that I look forward for weekends. I have come to a point where I find no difference at all, except for the fact that I can stay on my own on weekends. I cherish the solitude weekends bring with them. Sometimes I think I suffer from social phobia, but it is not like that at all. It is simply that I am a loner: and I am in love with my solitude, and thank goodness I am in love with myself. My study is my haven: my hundreds of books, my hundreds of cd's, Cornelius, the pictures hanging on the walls ... it is simply a haven. And apart from the music I play on the stereo, it is so splendidly silent.

Saturday evening is equally a bliss. It grows dark, naturally, and the candle light in my room and in the adjacent living room, gives such a warm feeling. The only thing missing is cold weather. It's still 30C and we're in October!

At 37 years of age, I have already accumulated enough memories to occupy my time with. Yesterday evening I was thinking about my trip to Hungary in 1992, which in a way opened the doors to Eastern Europe for me. I also thought about a friend of mine, now living abroad, who used to live in a house called Tincliff.

Then I realised the weekend was over.