We arrived in Malta yesterday under fair skies, but temperatures scarcely any improvement on what we had left behind. We should have considered ourselves lucky. Because today at around 2 pm, that is to say, after we had done the rounds of notable sights in Valletta, the heavens opened and an almighty deluge swept in from the northeast, driven by gale force winds.
I can report I am posting this blog sitting in the relative comfort of the Phoenicia hotel, one of Malta's finest, I am informed (though they do not supply slippers in the bedrooms despite their cold stone floors, and my wife's Margarita of last night was of sub-optimal quality- never fear: she'll blast them on trip advisor once we get home)
As I look around the elegant Palm Court lounge, there are a lot of glum faces (mostly Brits) who are wondering why they travelled 1500 miles and nearly 20 degrees due south to get weather no better, or even worse than back home. Them's the breaks, chums. We're all a lot better off here than 200 miles south: in Libya, where it's condition red and they are definitely expecting rain. The poor bastards. God preserve the people from that psycho and the murderous band of thugs (including his execrable son Saif)
who still support him.
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