Every Maltese Sunday Goes Like This
And on the seventh day, He rested. But He’s the Almighty, and so gets a day off. Us common mortal have shit that needs to get done on Sundays. Here’s how a typical Sunday goes:
1. Day off! I can wake up late!
Unless you have procreated. Children do not give one single solitary shit about weekends. Waking time is whenever their eyes open. Wailing time is exactly 4 seconds after that. Your daughter’s nappyload won’t wait for your hangover to clear. Dogs don’t care about your day of rest either. They still need to urinate against the neighbour’s Kia Piccanto. Quite a few construction workers also have a paucity of fucks to donate about your shut-eye, and will gladly use their jackhammers to rid you of the remnants of your somnolence.
2. Brunch!
Good idea! Let’s go to some fancy café and have Eggs Benedict and a cappuccino! Sure. Just as you’re trying to park, the nation’s churches fling open their doors to allow the throngs of worshippers into their incense smoke shacks. Any global benefit which the combined prayers of the faithful may have garnered is instantly nullified by the barrage of blasphemy which blasts from your lips as you search for any parking spaces which the Lord-lovers may have left free. Just switch on your hazard lights and get a qassata from Champ’s.
3. Sports!
“Immorru nieħdu kafe’, Salv?”
“Mela bloqna jew? Illum hemm il-Juve!”
Sunday is a day for football and Formula One widows to unite and grieve together.
4. Picnic!
Sundays are an excellent time to commune with nature and visit the countryside. Load the kids, dogs, coolers and Frisbees into the car and drive towards the rural parts of our islands. Then drive some more as you strive to find a spot which hasn’t been carpeted with Kit Kat wrappers and smeared kitchen roll by the infestation of noisy families who got there before you (i.e. at the crack of dawn). Look! An empty field! Between the discarded washing machine and the dead goat! As you yank on your handbrake, a voice roars at you, barely audible over the snarls and howls of the three klieb tal-kaċċa pulling desperately at their chains. “RTO sieħbi! Fejn dieħel?!”
5. Sunday roast!
What could possibly go wrong with a family gathering to consume some tasty basted protein? Well, now that you ask: the potatoes got burnt and Aunty Cetta won’t stop tutting and giving advice “għal darb’oħra”. Nannu still hasn’t got over the fact that you’re only married biċ-ċivil and so are effectively living in mortal sin, which makes him tut sadly every time he passes your bedroom on the way to the loo (għax ibati bil-prostata). Your twin toddler nephews are intent on eating your cacti and their father can’t control them because he fell asleep in the bathroom after drinking the bottle of Averna (“M’għandekx xi digestivo, hux?”) you were saving for a special occasion.
His wife (your sister) thinks that this is a good time to tell you that she’s thinking of leaving him for your friend Dave from the office and that conversation gets you to football time on telly, when you can finally shut yourself in your box room and pray for everyone to please fuck off home.
6. Netflix and chill
They finally comply and bugger off, so you settle down with a sandwich and a sigh to an evening of Game of Thrones and rummaging in your tracksuit trousers. And you then reach your data limit for the month. Your internet provider’s department of customer care obviously doesn’t, so you throw in the towel. Thankfully, tomorrow’s Monday and it’s back to work.
