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L-esaġerazzjoni f’kollox ħażina.

Kulħadd jafhom l-istejjer tal-Imperatur li kien mingħalih liebes il-ħwejjeġ, imma fil-fatt kien vittma ta’ ċajta goffa ta’ tnejn min-nies li kien jafda, u dik tal-ġuvni li biex salva lil missieru, mar quddiem is-Sultan liebes xibka, għax dan qallu biex imur quddiemu ‘liebes, iżda għarwien’.

Illum, dawn l-istejjer qed narawhom li saru verità; ħwejjeg li mhux ħwejjeġ, bħal xi par leggings qishom impittra, mhux milbusin, u flokkijiet trasparenti u qliezet imċarrta u mtaqqba’ li iżjed għandhom toqob milli drapp.

Kien hemm żmien meta l-ħwejjeġ kienu jpaxxuk, minbarra li jipproteġu d-dinjità ta’ min jilbishom; ilbies mirqum li jżomm id-dekor u d-dixxiplina. Ħadd ma kien jażżarda jmur il-knisja bla kmiem, jew bil-flipflops, jew b’qalziet jew dublett ‘il fuq mill-irkoppa.

Kien hemm kodiċi mhux miktuba dwar x’hinu aċċettabbli, u x’mhuwiex, u kien hemm sfilati tal-moda msejħin “Mary-like” għax il-ħwejjeġ kienu puliti, sbieħ, u jibżgħu għall-pudur ta’ min jilbishom. Daż-żmien, jgħidulek li meta eleganti kuljum, tkun ‘klassist’ u ‘elitist’.

Jekk tixtri qalziet u jiġik twil, u xxammarlu l-keffa, issib min jidhaq bik. Jekk ikollok jeans li jkun beda jitfi, jgħidulek biex tiekol inqas, sabiex tfaddal u tixtri ieħor. Morna minn qalziet bit-tinja spjanata, għal ħwejjeg li lanqas naffar ma jkun iridhom, kieku seta’ jagħżel.

Bl-iskuża tal-moda, iżda, hawn min jinsa li l-ġisem huwa tempju tal-Ispirtu s-Santu, u li aħna maħluqin fuq ix-xbiha t’Alla. L-ironija hi li lit-tfal inlibbsuhom qishom adulti żgħar, u l-adulti jilbsu qishom tfal li ma jixjieħu qatt, u n-nies li suppost jagħtu eżempju jilbsu ħwejjeġ li mingħalihom ser jagħmluhom popolari mal-pubbliku.

X’gost fih qalziet li qisu mtebba’ bit-tajn jew mikul mil-kamla, jew li qisu kien tan-nannu?

Hawn min jgħidlek li biex tkun komdu, ‘ma tistax’ tkun ‘diċenti’, għax il-kmiem u l-qliezi jsaħħnu u ma tkunx tista’ tiċċaqlaq. Jinsew li l-ħwejjeġ suppost li jipproteġu l-ġisem, kemm fiżikament u kemm moralment. Jgħidulek li jilbsu ‘qishom’ bl-addoċċ biex juru li mhumiex vanitużi, u fl-istess ħin, jiftaħru kemm nefqu flus fuq dak il-flokk li qisu mtebba’, u fuq qalziet li fih ħames tiċritiet. Jgħidulek li issa hekk moda, u li dak hu l-istil personali tagħhom, bla ma jindunaw li qed imeru lilhom innifishom.

Ħajjata prima ddum iddawwar id-drapp li jkun fih disinn, biex dan bl-ebda mod ma jiġbed l-attenzjoni lejn postijiet suġġestivi; iżda disinjatur tal-moda jara kif jagħmel u jesponihom, biex jagħmel furur.

Biex l-ilbies ikun modest, u moralment jew soċjalment aċċettabbli, m’għandux għalfejn ikun qisu kutra li tgeżwrek minn rasek sa saqajk. L-esaġerazzjoni f’kollox ħażina.

Say Thank You… Please!

Tuesday, November 22, 2011, 17:02  

The other day, one of the grapevines that have tendrils rootling into my computer informed me – three times – that a particular circle of voluntariat was seeking “things for families”.

This coincided with a closing-down shop giveaway of (modern) clothes to needy causes, by a friend. So we collected some of these new clothes, books, glassware, ceramics, stationery, and, on the way to the mustering place, we also bought some groceries.

When we got to the place where we were supposed to take the things, there was no one around, so we lugged in the (very heavy) bags and set them down near a couple of others, and turned to leave.

All of a sudden, a woman hurried out from a back room, arms like windmills, shouting “Hey! You! Stop!”

She told us, in a none-too-friendly voice, that they did not need “any more clothes” because they had “a lot”. I pointed out that it was wrong to assume we had brought only clothes, and that in fact the bag she had just picked up roughly (to check its contents, I assumed), was full of tins and packets of foodstuffs so she had better handle it carefully lest it burst…which it promptly did. It was only my prompt action that prevented everything spilling to the floor of the reception area.

As for the other bags, I said, there were some very nice things in them, and the clothes were there to stop them breaking.

She looked at me sharply, almost angrily, for daring to question her actions – and then decided I was probably relatively harmless. Grudgingly, she said “Very well, then, just this once we will accept them, then…” rather as if she were doing me a favour.

I understood that she might have been having a bad hair day, or that her reaction might have been engendered by opening a couple of bags with objects that would not even have been good enough to be worn by an actor playing a tramp in one of the silly dramas on local television.

However, one of the things we are taught in induction courses for volunteers, is to always be courteous towards people, even if they are not behaving well. And in this case, we were certainly not doing anything untoward.

I was shocked that this person did not seek to treat each case in its own merits, and to give us – perfect strangers – the benefit of the doubt.

I am certainly not implying that people who run charities must be thankful for the junk that people offload on them, just so they can boast that they “give a lot to charity”. I am simply stating that a person’s attitude reflects well, or badly, on the association he is representing at that particular moment.

Had this lady said “Thank you for your donations. Please note that as from tomorrow we will no longer be accepting clothes…” there would have been sweetness and light all around.

Alas, there are many more cases where the simple phrases “thank you” or even “no, thank you” appear to stick in the throat of the people who ought to be saying them.

There is the classic case of a woman who thought she would bake an extra meat pie and take it to the old lady across the road who had fallen and broke her ankle. You can imagine what she felt when the elderly woman said “I don’t eat other people’s food; I would rather have a corned beef sandwich than something I didn’t cook myself.”

The two largish dogs who had hurried to the door, no doubt attracted by the scent of the still-warm pie, probably only ate food cooked by their mistress, too.

It is a well-known fact that when children are still little, many mothers pass on clothing that is still pristine, seeing how quickly some children grow out of their garments. It’s green – and most of all, it saves money, too. But when the offer comes to be included in this Mothers’ Circle, some women say “as if”, as a single word. They people think it is infra dig for their children to be seen wearing used clothes… never mind that charity shops sometimes sell branded items with the tags still on, for much cheaper than they would cost in a boutique.

Are you thankful that a friend offers to help your child with lessons he finds particularly taxing? Or is it that you do not want to be thought a charity case – and you therefore prefer to pay through the nose for private lessons that involve a car journey?

Many people have learned, to their chagrin, that once they refuse an offer of help (not interference), it is never repeated. If you are given something you don’t particularly want, need or like, all you have to do is ask the donor whether it is all right to pass it on because you know someone who might benefit from it more than you (I bet the dogs would have loved that pie!).

It behoves the donor not to be offended, because he would have made the offer without being prompted. If he feels slighted, he ought to have no compunction about asking for something back. After all, in the aforementioned Mothers’ Circle, it was not the first time someone said something like “When Gail grows out of that dress please give it back to me because I’d like to keep it!”

It would do as all some good to use as a multi-purpose mantra a prayer usually said before meals – For whatever we are about to receive, may we be truly thankful.

Don’t Die of Ignorance

Friday, April 15, 2011, 16:29 , by 

The other day, I had what is usually known as a “funny turn”.  Truth to tell, it really isn’t funny – except when you see it in comedy, and even then, it smacks of bad taste.

Insomniac that I am, I had been up at night to soak the globe artichokes so they would osmose by  morning, made myself a coffee, wrote a couple of letters, and chucked a load in the wash. Then, I went back to bed and slept soundly until I was woken up by my stray cats mewling for their breakfast just outside the door.

I got out of bed and suddenly felt as if someone had emptied a can of pepper spray in my eyes. The pain was terrible and I could hardly see. Next to go were my limbs; my legs could not support me and I had to sit down, and I could not lift my arms, however much I tried, above my shoulder.

I also had trouble formulating words; my speech sounded, even to me, strange and hollow, and I was forgetting which words I wanted to use.

The episode barely lasted five minutes – in no time at all I was downstairs feeding (not) my cats and making lunches. The headache persisted all day, though.  The experience scared me so much I even called the doctor, which is something I usually do for other people, but have only done about three times for myself in all my 51 years.

As things turned out, it was not the stroke I feared it had been, because the symptoms had been on both sides of the body simultaneously.  It was a vicious attack of migraine, the symptoms of which are usually different for me. It could also have been a TIA (transient ischemic attack), but the persistent headache showed otherwise.

Had the opposite been true – that I assumed it was a “mere” killer migraine, whereas it would have been a stroke – I would certainly not have fed the cats that day.

This set me thinking. We have all heard of people whose medical conditions have worsened – and some people have died too – because they self-diagnosed badly – or took the wrong medication (all too often, alas, given to them by someone who meant well).

Some years ago I met a young widow. Hers was a sad story, and I wonder how many times it is repeated without anyone realising.

She and her husband had been to a wedding, and the next morning he felt very queasy.  A neighbour “knew” it was indigestion, because of the “rubbish they serve at weddings”, and gave him some tablets to ease it. However, the man’s situation got worse, so his wife called the doctor – and he died of a heart attack before the doctor had even arrived.

Something similar had happened to another person who had a heart attack and fell off his chair. He hit his temple and blood came gushing out – and his friends rushed him to hospital, where he died because one is not supposed to move a person when he has had a heart attack. But they could not have known that.

Then there was the time I walked into the chemist and saw a friend of mine with her son.  She said she was waiting for the doctor and I grinned because it was obvious. Then she said that he had been hit by a ball during games at school and I said “It happens!” and then she said something that made my blood run cold. “He fell and his hand banged the ground so hard that it bounced, his friends told me… And the school secretary called me because he was making a fuss…”

I am sorry to say I used my Outside Voice in public.  By this time, the boy was rolling his eyes.  I told her that he was probably concussed and that waiting for the doctor would waste precious time because he needed to get to the hospital as soon as possible.  In fact, the child was kept under observation for a week.

Another, far more serious case, concerns bleeding that was mistaken for haemorrhoids by one personal doctor and two different firms of doctors in hospital. It was colo-rectal cancer, and by the time the patient was practically dragged to a specialist, it had metastasised and it was too late for anything to be done.

I cannot not mention my friend’s daughter, who was given penicillin despite the fact that my friend told the medical staff the child was allergic to it, on the lines of “what does she know about allergies?”

Many are all too happy to mete out psycho-babble advice to parents of children who do not behave, or do not eat, or do not otherwise conform to what is considered “normal”.

Others are of a more medical bent. They tell you what illness you have, and what you must take for it, reeling off the names of medications as if they were reading from a catalogue.  They tell you that what your doctor has given you is “useless” – or even that it will “make you worse”.

My only advice at this juncture is – don’t die of ignorance… yours or that of someone else

Tivvintax!

Te u kafe tal-internet; ħela ta’ hin, jew pjaċir?

Il-ħbieb ta’ Ethan Pope sabuh mejjet. Kien ħa suppliment “tal-moda”,  rriklamat ħafna fuq l-internet. Mewta ta’ żagħżugħ ta’ 23 sena li setgħet kienet evitata kieku ma kienx daqshekk suxxettibli għall-kliem u l-istampi li dehru fuq l-iskrin… kieku ma kienx daqshekk faċli li jinkiseb il-prodott… kieku għamel ftit riċerka…

Fl-awtopsja nstab li Ethan, ġuvni b’saħtu, li la kellu drogi, u anqas alcohol, fis-sistema tiegħu, u l-“intossikazzjoni” kienet biss b’dan il-prodott.

Kultant, xi ħaġa, bħal leħħa f’munzell tiben, tixgħel fjamma li tidher ħafna imma ma tfisser xerjn.  Kulħadd jagħmel bħall-moghoż; biex inkunu “trendy”, nagħmlu kif ikun hemm fil-klipp, jew inxerrduha biex tkompli tinfirex.

Insemmu x-xagħar griż, il-klieb Dalmatian, iż-żebgħa tad-dwiefer fluworexxenti, iż-żfin u d-diski bla sens, id-dwal jixgħelu u jitfu, il-‘flash mobs’, li taqsam flixkun tal-inbid biex tagħmlu tazza, u ħafna oħrajn.

Insibu ħafna xejriet perikolużi li ħallew ħafna vittmi. Bħal Ethan, ħasbu li “ma fiha xejn” li tobdi bla ma tiddiskutiha ma’ min jifhem. Kien hemm sfida li tiekol mgħarfa trab tal-kannella, u oħra li kważi tifga lilek innifsek, u oħra li jieklu d-diterġent, jew jużaw il-mediċini meta ma jkollhomx bżonnhom, li jieklu l-bżar aħmar, li ‘jinħarqu’ bil-melħ u s-silġ, eċċ.

Min irid jaqla’ l-flejjes kbar, jinħeba wara l- psewdoxjenza u l-kliem fieragħ. Jgħidulek li għandek tkun b’saħtek, u modern, u individwu (jekk tagħmel bħal eluf ohra?).

Ħadd ma jsemmi lil Joshua Haileyesus, li faga meta ma setgħax iħoll il-lazz minn ma’ għonqu, u lil Abbie Quinnen, li nħarqet metra sploda f’wiċċha l-flixkun tal-inbid.

Dan it-tsunami beda’ minħabba stanjata tal-kafè tal-elettriku, li kienet fil-Laboratorju tal-Kompjuter tal-Università ta’ Cambridge. L-istaff kienu jiddejqu meta jmorru għall-kafe, u l-magna tkun vojta. Quentin Stafford-Fraser u Paul Jardetzky, innavigaw u għamlu kamera li turi l-magna, f’kull kompjuter li kien hemm fin-network tal-binja. B’hekk, kulħadd kien ikun jaaf min kien qed jieħu l-kafe, u kemm kien baqa’.

Wara li dan il-filmat ittella’ fuq l-internet, saru ħafna varjazzjonijiet tiegħu – niftakar li fuq stazzjonTaljan kien hemm Camera Café fejn il-lenti kienet fuq il-magna, u aħna konna naraw u nisimgħu l-intriċċi tal-uffiċċju u tal-ħajja privata tal-impjegati.

Huwa sew li kultant nitfgħu mistoqsija għal saqajha, liż-żgħażagh tagħna. Nistaqsuhom, ngħidu aħna, jekk hemmx xi riklami ta’ mediċini ‘naturali’ (il-Kombucha li suppost tfejjaq il-kanċer); jew jekk hemmx xi logħob li jaħsbu li hu perikoluż (bħal meta fix-xitwa xi ħadd jitfa’ barmil silġ fuq ras xiħaddd ieħor); jew li jqum ħafna flus (bħal meta jiġu mħeġġin jixtru prodotti bħal kremi, xorb, jew pilloli).

Inti Tiswa’ Ħabba?

Il-valur m’għandux x’jaqsam mal-prezz.

Tajjeb li nibdew is-sena bi storja antika, imma li għadha valida.

Raġel sinjur kien jagħmel ħafna karita, iżda kellu xi ħaġa li qatt ma xtaq jagħmilha flus biex jagħthom lil xi ħadd.

Meta marad ħass li kien wasal iż-żmien li juża dan l-oġġett biex lil ibnu jtih tagħlima li jibqa’ jiftakarha għall-bqija ta’ ħajtu.

“Ara, Marco,” qallu. “Dan l-arloġġ xtrajtu minn fuq l-idejn. Sabiħ, hux? Irridek tmur naqra s’għand tal-ħanut, ħa tara kemm iġġib tiegħu, kieku kellek tbiegħu.”

Il-ġuvni mar għand ir-Regettier. Dan kemmex xoftejh. “U ma tarax!” qallu.  Dan qisu ma jaħdimx sew. Ara, għandu girfa. Antikalja. Forsi forsi, għax sibtni burdata tajba llum, intik €30 tiegħu, u nkun qed nagħmillek grandissmu pjaċir.”  Li Marco għokritu għajnejh, iżjed u iżjed minn kif ħatafulu minn idejh biex qed taparsi jiflih sewwa u għamlu mal-polz biex qisu jara kif joqgħodlu.

“Kollox sew, jekk nagħmel xi ħsieb, ngħidlek,” qallu, u telaq jieħu kafe. Ġie l-kliem ma’ klijent ieħor, u dan talbu biex jurih l-arloġġ.

“Oh, xi ġmiel. Mank kelli l-flus fuqi biex nixtrih. Dan iġib €200 żgur. Jekk tistennieni hawn immur niġbed il-flus issa stess, u nibqa’ ġej hawn, dritt, għalih.”

“Jien iżjed għall-kurżita, tafx. Mhux ħa nbiegħu.”

Ir-raġel l-ieħor tfantas, u qallu “Agħmel int, mela. Tlift affari!”

“Fuq tlieta toqgħod il-borma!” ħaseb, u baqa’ sejjer għand l-arloġġar.

Dan x’ħin ra l-arloġġ, ħa nifs ‘l ġewwa, u wiċċu bjad. “Tbiegħux!” qallu. “Ara ma jfettillekx. Anqas jekk ma jkollokx għaxja ta’ lejla, ejja għandi, u nitimgħek jien!”

Meta ġrat din l-istorja, ma kienx hawn l-Internet, u Marco ma setgħax jagħmel ir-riċerka hu stess. Allura qabditu l-kurżita, u staqsa lill-arloġġar għaliex kien qallu hekk.

“Dan Patek Philippe 3974, wieħed mill-aktar kronometri ikkumplikati li jeżistu. Qed tarah dan is-salib stramb? Dan hu s-simbolu tal-Ordni ta’ Calatrava, waħda mill-erba’ ordnijiet militari Spanjoli; l-ewwel ordni militari mwaqqfa f’Kastilja, u t-tieni li rċieva l-approvazzjoni papali, li ingħatat mill-Papa Alessandru III. Ħa ngħidlekl dwar id-dettalji l-oħrajn… Iġib flejjes kbar, dan.” U Marco kellu jitolbu karta u lapes biex ikun jista’ jgħid li missieru kull ma kien qed jisma’.

“Dehrli li kien jiswa kemxa, imma ma kontx nimmaġina dik is-somma,” qal missier Marco. “Din tagħlima. Dejjem qis kollox, għax kultant in-nies ikollhom agenda. Min jaf l-valur tiegħek, japprezzawk.

Immaġina li għandek blokka azzar, li tiswa’ €100. Jekk tiddeċiedi li tagħmel nagħal għaż-żwiemel, il-valur jiżdied għal €250. U l-valur ikompli jogħla, skont x’tagħmel – labar tal-ħjata, molol għall-arloġġi…”

Kun af kemm tiswa!