Saturday is for St James

Saturday mornings are for Liz alone. She gets to have a cappuccino without having to share the foam.

On Saturday mornings, I get to talk to Jacob about the bombing of the Valletta Opera House. I wait next to the Thomas the Tank Engine 10c ride. I get to lecture on potty training. I take Jacob into the church of St Francis. Everything has turned electric, even the red candles have little lamps in them now. Jacob counts the number of electric fans taking out the sleepy flies. It is September but still 26 degrees outside.

So to the exhibition of Malta photography at St James Cavalier. Almost makes me proud of the wretched, old island.

Jacob gets tangled in the wires holding a perspex collage. Jacob wants to look at the sea. I turn my back to the bus terminus and points in the general direction of St. Elmo. Jacob is not easily fooled. He wants the real thing, sea salt and spray.

By the time I get back to the 1998 metalic blue VW Polo Classic, I want a new back.

Instead, I drive back home, deposit the sleeping Jacob with Liz and write this blog.

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