Meta kienet għadha tifla n-Nanna Kitty, kienu ‘moda’ il-penfriends. Kellha wahda miċ-Ċzechoslovakia, pajjiż li ma baqax jeżisti mill-31 ta’ Diċembru, 1992, ‘l quddiem, għax inqasam fi tnejn – is-Slovakkja, u r-Repubblika Ċeka.
Imma Zuzana Kováčová u n-Nanna Kitty baqgħu ħbieb, tant li dan l-aħħar giet taraha, u ġabitlha ikona ta’ San Pietru u San Pawl. Meta rawha, Fleur innotat is-simetrija u d-dettalji, u Lee beda’ jgħadddi l-kummenti dwar id-dehra tal-qaddisin.
In-Nanna Kitty qaltilhom li fi Triq l-Arċisqof, bejn Triq il-Merkanti u Triq ir-Repubbika, hemm il-Knisja li kulħadd isehilha ‘Tal-Griegi’, li fil-fatt hija ddedikata lil Sidtna Marija ta’ Damaxxena, li fiha ħafna ikoni sbieħ.
Lit-tewmin kielithom il-kurżita, u xtaqu jmorru jarawha.
B’xorti tajba, inzertaw lill-Papàs Vito Borgia, bniedem ta’ ħlewwa u għerf liema bħalhom, qiegħed jixgħel ix-xemgħat qudddiem l-ikoni, u kif rahom staqsihom jekk xtaqux li jiggwidahom biex jifhmu is-sinifikat tad-dettalji u tal-ilwien tal-ikoni, u dawn ħatfuh fil-kelma.
‘Il-kelma Griega għal ikona hija, “Αγιογραφία,” li tinqasam f’żewġ kelmiet: Άγιο, li jfisser Qaddis jew tas-Smewwiet, u γραφία li tfisser ikteb. Għalhekk, ma ngħidux ‘inpinġu’ ikona, imma ‘niktbuha’. Dan għax kull nitfa li qed taraw, qisha kapitlu ta’ ktieb mingħajr kliem, għax miktub bil-kuluri, u f’forma ta’ talba. Ikona mhijiex stampa tal-passat, imma tieqa tal-preżent etern.
Nibdew bil-kuluri. Dak l-isfond tad-deheb huwa s-simbolu tal-eternità, u d-dawl tas-sema.’
‘Jimporta nieħdu xi noti?’ staqsiet Fleur.
‘Anzi, aħjar li tagħmlu hekk,’ wieġeb. ‘L-ikoni jesprimu l-Fidi Ortodossa, it-tagħlim, u l-qima. Araw il-ħarsa u l-uċuħ tal-figuri. L-għajnejn huma kbar biex jaraw il-ħwejjeġ spiritwali. Il-widnejn huma kbar u x-xofftejn żagħar, biex jenfasizzaw il-ħtieġa li tisma’ lil Alla fis-skiet u l-ġabra. L-imnieħer twil huwa l-ħajja fl-Ispirtu. L-ikona hi tieqa tas-sema, f’nofs id-dinja tagħna. Meta ras Marija tkun mdawra lejn Ġesù, dan ikun sinjal ta’ mħabba u umiltà. Meta l-uċuħ ta’ Marija u Ġesù jmissu, din hi l-imħabba bejn omm u iben.’
‘U l-kuluri?’ staqsa Lee.
‘L-ikħal ifisser il-bniedem, u l-ħolqien. L-aħmar hu d-divinità u l-ħajja. Mela naraw li Marija spiss tkun liebsa libsa ħamra b’mantell ikħal, imma Ġesù jkollu l-ikħal taħt, u l-aħmar fuq barra.
‘Araw kif il-persuni aktar spiritwalment importanti f’kull ikona huma akbar fid-daqs mill-oħrajn. Ma hemmx dellijiet, għax fil-ġenna ma hemmx dlam. Il-qadddisin, jikitbu minn qudddiem,imma nies oħrajn ikunu fil-profil…’
Fleur ħarset lejn l-arloġġ, tat daqqa bil-minkeb lil Lee, u qamet bilwieqfa. ‘Papàs, sarilna l-ħin biex immorru għand in-Nanna Kitty, għax dalwaqt jiġu l-papa u l-mama biex nieklu…’
‘Meta tridu, erġgħu ejjew, għaax baqali hafna u ħafna x’ngħidilkom,’ qalilhom. Bierikom, u ta ikona tal-Madonna ta’ Damaxxena lil Fleur, u oħra lil Lee.
Lee’s shoelace had come undone again – for the third time. He scowled at it, kicking his foot against the sand, as if that might magically re-tie the knot. Fleur rolled her eyes and crouched down, fingers already working the lace into a tight, double-looped bow. “You’re hopeless,” she said, grinning up at him. “In any case, we’ll soon be taking off our shoes…”
Behind them, the ice cream truck rattled its familiar jingle, drowning out the distant crash of waves. “Not now!” said Nanna Kitty, reading their minds. “After you’ve had your lunch…”
Down by the shoreline, a group of kids were piling sand into lopsided towers, their laughter carrying far on the salt-tinged breeze. One of them, a girl with a bright orange swimsuit, waved wildly in their direction. Fleur nudged Lee. “I think she’s mistaking us for children she knows.”
They walked on, and Nanna Kitty chose her ideal spot. She opened her beach chair and sat down. Fleur and Lee piled their shoes, towels, and rucksacks near her, ready to run off into the sea.
“Twins! Sunscreen! Now!” she said, brandishing the bottle like a trophy and unscrewing the cap with a theatrical twist. Her wide-brimmed hat bobbed as she slathered the cream onto their faces, arms, legs, and backs with the brisk efficiency of someone who’d done this a million times before.
“Race you to the waves!” Lee yelled before Nanna Kitty had even closed the bottle, and then he sprinted away, whooping as he narrowly avoided colliding with a little boy clutching a dripping popsicle.
The sea was warm and inviting. Toddlers with swimming aids were having the time of their lives. Lee was so eager to win the impromptu race with Fleur that he didn’t realise that the biggest sandcastle was right in his path.
“No!” yelled one of the children who had been working on the castle for nearly an hour and didn’t want to see it crumble.
“Jump!” shouted Fleur. And Lee launched himself over it, arms windmilling. Fleur skidded to a stop right at the edge, panting. “You’re such a show-off,” she called, as he belly-flopped into the shallows with a splash that soaked three nearby sunbathers.
The twins swam, dived, and frolicked in the water, knowing that it would be at least a week before another such outing. Nanna Kitty came to the shoreline, calling them to come out of the sea to eat their lunch. Lee surfaced, sputtering, his hair plastered to his forehead like seaweed, complaining that they had only been swimming for five minutes.
When they had eaten, something shiny caught Fleur’s eye. Half-buried in the sand near Nanna Kitty’s chair was a ring. She picked it up carefully. “Nanna… look what I found.”
Before Nanna Kitty could answer, a woman approached them, looking worried and brushing sand from her swimming shorts. “Excuse me… has anyone seen a ring? My wedding ring slipped off when I was shaking out our towels.”
Nanna Kitty stood and nodded toward Fleur. “We may have it. Tell me, dear, what’s engraved inside it?”
The woman answered without hesitation, “Our wedding date. July, 12, 2014.”
Nanna Kitty smiled, satisfied. “Then this is yours.” She pressed the ring into the woman’s palm.
“Oh, thank you!” the woman breathed, her shoulders sagging in relief. “I thought it was lost forever.” She ruffled Fleur’s hair gently. “You’re my hero today.”
Fleur beamed, and Lee pretended not to be impressed [but he was].
Nanna Kitty held out a crumpled €10 note. “Go on, then. Fetch ice-creams for yourselves, and for me, please. I want crushed pistachio on mine—no peanuts or hazelnuts.”
The castle-builders were still at it, upturning buckets of wet sand as if there were no tomorrow. “And don’t forget…” Nanna started, but Fleur was already halfway to the truck, the money clutched in her sticky fist. “…in a cup,” said Nanna Kitty to no-one in particular.
The queue for ice-creams snaked along the beach, buzzing with the chatter of damp children and weary parents. Fleur bounced on her toes, counting the dwindling stock of chocolate-dipped cones in the glass case. I hope they’ve got more than just those…
Behind her, the girl in the bright orange swimsuit was singing loudly and off-key about giraffes and unicorns. Fleur turned to her with a smile. “We learned that song in Kindergarten…” she said, and sang along with her. Seconds later, all the children who knew the song had joined in.
“I’m Jasmine,” she said, offering a sandy hand. Fleur shook it, feeling the grit grind between their palms. “We’re here with our Nanna Kitty.”
“I’m here with mummy, because it’s her birthday and she and daddy both took the day off… Maybe you can help me carry back their ice-creams?”
Lee nodded. He had been feeling left out of the conversation, so he began whistling—something that he knew annoyed Fleur no end. The girls were talking nineteen to the dozen, and they didn’t even realise that it was their turn to be served.
Jasmine’s parents had moved their things near Nanna Kitty. When they had all eaten their ice-creams, Jasmine’s mother passed around slices of dark red watermelon with black seeds. “We get these from Iż-Żebbug in Gozo,” she said. “My friend Cynthia grows them in a field right behind her house.”
All too soon, it was time to go home.
The twins stuffed their belongings into their backpacks, and Nanna Kitty was packing up everything, including the wet towels, with military precision.
Sand clung to the children’s arms and shins. Nanna Kitty took out a cannister of talcum powder, and sprinkled some on the sand. The children rubbed at it, and all the sand fell away.
“Magic!” said Jasmine.
“I never knew this…” said her mother. “It’s going to be one more thing to bring with us, each time we come to the beach…”
Jasmine leaned close to Fleur, and whispered in her ear, “Your nanna’s really cool.”
Il-pupi tal-kaxxa kien ikollhom bott imdeffes f’hofra f’dahrhom. Meta xxaqleb il-pupa, kien joħroġ ħoss li suppost kien ta’ tarbija tibki, iżda iżjed jixbaħ lil nagħġa tinbee.
Wara gew ġugarelli li meta tiġbdilhom spaga, ‘jitkellmu’, u oħrajn li jirrepetu dak li tkun għedt. Oħrajn kont iddeffsilhom diska ħoxna tal-plastik, u jkantaw.
Il-ġugarelli li jagħmlu l-ħsejjes, jew li jitkellmu, m’humiex xi ħaġa ġdida. Iżda issa twieled fenomenu ġdid; mhux pupi li jirreċitaw frażijiet programmati minn qabel, iżda oħrajn li kapaċi jitkellmu ma’ min ikun qiegħed jużahom.
Fl-2017 kien qam furur fuq il-pupa “My Friend Cayla”, li kienet pupa attivata bil-Bluetooth, u konnessa mal-Wi-Fi. Kien intqal li din ‘tispjuna’ fuq il-familja ta’ fejn tkun.
Qegħdin jissemmew pjanijiet speċifiċi biex xi pupi jkollhom fihom l-Intelligenza Artifiċjali. Dawn ikunu ‘jifhmu’ dak li jgħidu t-tfal, u ‘jirrispondu’ b’tali mod li ‘qishom ta’ vera’.
Din il-potenzjalità taf tkun perikoluża għall-iżvilupp tat-tfulija. Kulħadd jaf kemm xi tfal għandhom ħabta jimmaġinaw li l-pupu tagħhom ‘ikellimhom’, u dan juri l-intelliġenza u l-imaġinazzjoni tat-tifla. Iżda meta l-kliem ikun “ta’ vera”, ikolna l-inkwiet.
Dawn il-ġugarelli jibdew jitkellmu lura qishom tifel ieħor, u jkollhom memorja ta’ x’ikun intqal qabel, u b’hekk, il-qasma bejn l-immaġinazzjoni u r-realtà tiċċajpar.
Xbajna naqraw stejjer ta’ kemm adulti jiżviluppaw konessjonijiet maċ-chatbots, u saħansitra jimmaġinaw li għandhom relazzjoni magħhom. Aħseb u ara tifel, kif jista’ jifhem li dak il-pupu li qed ikellmu, mhux “ħaj” iżda ‘logħba sofistikata tar-rejalta virtwali’.
Il-pupu mhux parti mill-familja tas-soltu, iżda ħabib ‘sinċier’ li jsibu x’ħin irid; anqas biss għandu għalfejn joħroġ mill-kamra u jmur l-iskola, jew jixgħel it-tablet, għax dan il-ħabib ‘awtentiku’ dejjem lest li jkellmu; joffri konversazzjoni u kumdità, kemm jagħfas buttuna. Ma ninsewx li xi tfal u adolexxenti li jħoisu li ħadd ma jħobbhom, solitarji qed jissostitwixxu l-ħbiberija tal-ħajja reali bl-AI.
Teddy Ruxpin kien jirrakkonta dejjem l-istess stejjer. Il-pupi bl-AI għandhom stokk infinit ta’ ċajt u stejjer u kant… u fl-istess hin, jikompromettu s-sigurtà, u l-privatezza mhux tat-tifel biss, iżda ta’ kull min jgħix fid-dar fejn ikun.
Din l-ideja ttieħed sal-estrem fil-films AI (2001) u M3GAN (2022), fejn rajna ‘pupi’ mogħnija b’intelliġenza artifiċjali li ssarfet f’faxxinu u terrur. Dawn marru ferm ‘l hinn minn meta wieħed jgħid “OK Google”, jew isejjaħ lil “Siri” biex iddoqqlu diska.
Inkunu qegħdin tassew nitfgħu il-lifgħa f’ħobbna jekk ifettlilna nixtru dawn il-ġugarelli, biex ikolna xi ħaġa unika u gustuża, saħansitra biex forsi uliedna jkollhom xi ħaga li ulied ħaddieħor, m’għandhomx.
The only time I ever utter the words “Quiet, Piggy” is when Matilda, my Vietnamese pot-bellied pig, decides to serenade the entire neighbourhood with her squeals of impatience, because lunch isn’t ready the moment she thinks it should be. If you’ve ever lived with a pig, you know exactly the kind of performance I’m talking about; an operatic blend of outrage, anticipation, and dramatic flair that somehow manages to be both demanding and endearing. She has impeccable timing, too. The second the refrigerator door opens, or if a bag happens to crinkle just the right way, the squealing begins. And although I jokingly say, “Quiet, Piggy,” she absolutely knows I don’t mean it. In fact, she usually squeals louder, as if clarifying that this household runs on her schedule, not mine. As funny as her theatrics are, they’ve made me think a lot about voices… whose get heard, and whose get flippantly dismissed. And recently, I’ve noticed the contrast between affectionately telling my pig to hush for a moment, and the far more troubling ways people, especially those in power, try to silence others. We’ve all seen the well-documented pattern of President Trump’s public confrontations, with women journalists. His responses have often included belittling remarks, mockery, or dismissive language aimed at undermining their credibility and shutting down their questions. These moments don’t just affect the individual reporter in the spotlight. They send a broader message; one that can discourage other female journalists from asking assertive or necessary questions, knowing they might be met not with answers, but with ad hominem attacks. For the record, Trump’s deep-seated misogyny is evident in his frequent appearance-based insults towards women, such as derogatory comments about Carly Fiorina, Mika Brzezinski, Stormy Daniels, Rosie O’Donnell, and Alicia Machado, intended to undermine their credibility and silence them. So when I joke “Quiet, Piggy” at home, it’s a reminder of how different it feels when silence is requested with affection, versus when silence is demanded and imposed through intimidation, and / or name-calling. My pig may squeal because lunch is late, but at least in our home, every creature gets to express themselves without fear… sometimes loudly, sometimes excessively, but always freely. This is that’s something I wish translated more often into the public sphere: a world where using your voice, especially as a woman doing her job, doesn’t invite ridicule, but respect.
Fleur was the first to notice it… she always was. Lee insisted it was only because she walked faster, and looked down when she walked, but Nanna Kitty insisted it was because Fleur had ‘eyes that see, not eyes that look’; eyes that saw not just what was there, but what might be. Either way, that morning at Wied Għammieq, while Nanna Kitty went off toward the cemetery with flowers, and candles, and a sigh that belonged to some private part of her, the two children lingered at the tideline.
It was one of those Maltese winter-bright days when the waves looked like they had been scrubbed clean overnight; dark blue as a promise, foamy as soap, and carrying along the usual tumble of half-remembered things: driftwood, broken shells, and seaweed like green festoons from a forgotten festa. Tucked among the usual tangles and salty fronds, was something different.
“Wow, Lee… look at this!” Fleur bent down, gingerly lifting a cluster of seaweed that shimmered almost gold when the sun caught it. It was like coral, but not that. This was softer, stranger, like the sea had tried to make lace and given up halfway.
“If we dried it,” Fleur mused, her mind already miles away, “it could make beautiful jewellery. Like coral… but not coral.”
Lee shrugged, half-interested, undecided whether to take photographs or finding pebbles with which to play ducks-and-drakes. But before he could complain of the cold breeze sneaking into his sleeves, something shifted. The sea, which had been rolling in its usual steady rhythm, suddenly stilled, as though holding its breath. The waves pulled apart like curtains.
“Don’t scream,” Fleur hissed, which of course made Lee yell.
Up from the parted water rose a woman dressed in a white robe with fantastic jewellery fit for a Queen. He clothes were not wet, so she had certainly not swum there from Marsaskala. Her hair streamed behind her like kelp caught in a friendly current. A crown that was not shiny gold, but sea-gold, the colour of sunlight through water, rested upon her head. Her smile and open arms sai, ‘Welcome to my World’.
“Children,” she said, as if she had been expecting them. “You wish to know the art, right?”
“The art?” Fleur echoed, still clutching the strange seaweed.
“Jewellery,” the Lady clarified, amusement dancing across her features. “You were right… dried, it is lovely. But you must dye it before it dries, while it is still porous. Otherwise the colour will come off on your hands and clothes, and you will have a very cross mother asking why you smell of the sea for three days.”
Lee blinked. “We… can’t breathe underwater. And we don’t have our swimsuits.”
She laughed, a sound like the small shells in the wind-chimes knocking together. “Who told you that you must swim? My workshop a.” And indeed, as the waves steadied again, a stairway revealed itself; stone steps, slick with brine but perfectly walkable, leading down, down, down, without a single drop of water touching the children.
She gave them a tour of her workshop, which was lit by a glow that was not fire and not sunlight. She showed them how to dye seaweed so the colour stayed true, and how to shape it while it was still supple and how to cut it on the bias without fraying its edges. She explained how Posidonia, though delicate to the untrained eye, could be woven like the finest filaments of fibre, if handled with both respect and a certain stubborn tenderness. Kelp, wrack, and other plants they had only ever seen stranded on sand became beads, pendants, spirals; tiny treasures fashioned from the sea’s own generosity.
When they returned to the shore, the steps vanished behind them as though they had never existed. Nanna Kitty was waiting for them, her hands folded over her handbag, her expression unreadable but warm.
“Nanna, we met a lady!” Lee burst out. “Her name was Marina Maris! She…”
Nanna Kitty smiled… not surprised, not disbelieving. “Ah,” she said softly, the breeze tugging at her scarf. “So you met her, did you?”
And she stood up and walked ahead of the children, humming a tune as old as the sea itself.
Pauline insistiet li t-tpinġija ġġib is-saħta, u min jagħmilha jkun qiegħed jagħmel dnub mejjet.
Kienu bosta li qalulha li l-Knisja Kattolika ma tipprojbixxix espressament it-tatwaġġi, u li m’hemm l-ebda silta speċifika tal-liġi kanonika, jew fil-Katekiżmu li tipprojbixxihom għal kollox.
Il-gwida morali tal-Knisja iżjed tiffoka minflok fuq l-intenzjoni u t-tifsira wara t-tpinġija, kif ukoll jekk tirrispettax id-dinjità tal-ġisem, it-tempju tal-Ispirtu s-Santu.
It-tatwaġġi li jigglorifikaw il-vjolenza, il-mibegħda, l-okkult, jew kwalunkwe ħaġa li tmur kontra l-valuri Kattoliċi, huma moralment problematiċi, mhux prudenti, u jistgħu ikunu ta’ skandlu. Tatwaġġi li jinvolvu l-ħsara jew alterazzjoni eċċessiva tal-ġisem għandjhom jiġu evitati.
Ma ninsewx li xi missjunarji Kattoliċi f’ċerti kulturi fil-fatt għandhom tatwaġġi, għax iġorru simboliżmu reliġjuż jew protettiv li jaqbel mat-tradizzjoni lokali. Qaddisin Kattoliċi bħal San Franġisk Xavier iltaqgħu ma’ kulturi fejn it-tatwaġġi kellhom sinifikat reliġjuż; xi Kopti u Kattoliċi tal-Lvant Nofsani ilhom jużaw tatwaġġi żgħar ta’ salib bħala xhieda pubblika tal-fidi.
Uħud jikkowotaw il-vers Levitiku 19:28, li jgħid: “Tqattgħux ġisimkom għall-mejjet, u anqas tpinġu tpinġija fuqkom: Jiena l-Mulej.’’
L-istjudjużi jgħidulna li din il-projbizzjoni ingħatat fil-kuntest li jiġu evitati l- prattiċi pagani, bħala parti mill-patt ma’ Alla [bħal ma saru l-liġijiet dwar l-ikel mhux imniġġes, l-ilbies, u ċ-ċirkonċiżżjoni], bħala restrizzjoni kulturali jew ritwali ċerimonjali, mhux kmand morali universali. Ma ninsewx li l-Lhud kienu għaadhom ġejjein minn kultura Egizzjana fejn il-qima lejn l-allat “Hathor” u “Bes”, kienet tinkludi dawn l-affarijiet.
Ġesù afferma l-importanza tal-liġi tat-Testment il-Qadim, iżda enfasizza wkoll it-twettiq tagħha permezz tat-tagħlim u l-azzjonijiet tiegħu. It-Testment il-Ġdid jiffoka fuq l-ispirtu tal-liġi u l-importanza tal-imħabba, il-grazzja u l-fidi. Ma jindirizzax espliċitament it-tatwaġġi, u jħalli spazju għall-interpretazzjoni u l-kuxjenza individwali.
Hija tassew ħassra li niffokaw wisq fuq id-dehriet esterni, u ninsew is-sejħa aktar profonda li nħobbu u naqdu lil ħaddieħor. It-tatwaġġi u l-imsielet ‘l hawn u ‘l hinn ma jagħmlux lil xi ħadd iżjed jew inqas minn ħaddieħor. Hawn saħaansitra saċerdoti li għandhom it-tpinġija; u wieħed minnhom, Ġermaniż, li ltqajna miegħu, saħansitra fetaħ daru għal min ma kellux saqaf fuq rasu. Il-qdusija ma tiġix b’li timxi blaa ma tgħolli għanjek mill-art, imma b’li tħobb li għajrek bħalek innifsek, b’ħajja ta’ mħabba, karità, u servizz.
Huwa faċli li tipponta subgħajk lejn dak li għandu driegħu mimlija tinġija, u dik li kitbet l-ismijiet ta’ uliehda fuq tagħha. Dawn ma interpretawx il-bilanċ bejn it-tradizzjoni u l-individwalità, u l-libertà ta’ espressjoni, kif għamilt int li m’għandekx tpinġija.
Hawn min għandu tbajja’ ta’ mibgħeda f’qalbu, u ħadd ma jitkaża bih, għax ma jidhrux.
The children of Miss Marija’s class made over-the-top snuffling and sniffling noises.
“I smell vanilla!” exclaimed Jael.
“I smell almond, too, though,” said Marla.
“I smell furniture polish,” commented Fleur.
“I smell musty, decaying, paper…” sighed Lee.
Miss Marija smiled… until she noticed the beady eyes of the Librarian upon her, wordlessly asking her to tell them to stop.
So Miss Marija clapped thrice, which was the signal for the class to be quiet. They knew that if they didn’t comply, they would miss the next outing [or so she always said]. “The smells are from the volatile organic compounds released as the paper, ink, and binding in books age and break down,” she explained.
As part of the Valletta Tour, she had led them to the Bibliotheca in Valletta, so they could see the old tomes about Mediaeval Malta.
Lee shifted impatiently. “Will this take long?”
“Really, Lee? We’ve only just got here…” scolded Sabrina.
The librarian glared at Lee and said “Shhh!”. He blushed, and sat down. Soon after, the Assistants brought out five thick volumes and placed them on the long tables. Miss Marija divided the children into five groups, so they would not crowd around one book while the others remained closed.
“Oh, look at these cats painted in the margins of the books. They are so ugly, aren’t they?” said Liam.
“Marginalia is what they are called,” said Fleur, who picked up bits of information from here and there, and never hesitated to show off what she knew. “That’s a bestiary, because it has all kinds of animals in it,” she added for good measure.
One of the books was devoted solely to cats. The animals were indeed grotesque; they had flat faces with bulbous eyes, elongated bodies, and unnerving grins from ear to ear like those of the Cheshire Cat of Alice in Wonderland. Fleur imagined that one particularly distorted creature, its snout flattened like a squashed beetle. was looking directly at her,
“Who’s a pretty boy, then?” Fleur whispered, pressing her index finger lightly onto the cat’s drawn nose. It felt wet. She looked at her finger and saw that it was stained with ink. The page shimmered, not with light, but with a sudden, soundless ripple that warped the manuscript’s fibres, and the fabric of time. The children at that particular table disappeared into thin air.
They found themselves sitting on the cold stone of a parapet overlooking the turquoise sea. They blinked, confused by the blast of hot, salt-tanged wind and the rhythmic crash of waves below. Sunlight glinted off the limestone buildings.
Soft ‘mrrows’ drew their gaze downward. A cat called Nicola had sauntered up to them, his fur sleek as polished amber. “Lost, are we?” he enquired in a voice like rustling parchment, flicking his tail. His green eyes held unnerving intelligence. “Welcome,” it said, “to Valletta, Malta. Though you seem… different from the children I know.”
Fleur did a double take. But we are already in Valletta. Her finger was still stained, and tingling from when she had touched the book. The sea breeze carried scents of oregano and baking bread from the sun-drenched alleys below. She touched the rough limestone parapet, and asked the cat, “You can talk?”
“Obviously.” The cat yawned [he had terrible halitosis], displaying needle-sharp teeth. “Unlike those dreadful scribbles in the books. Ugly things. Artists can’t even draw a mousehole properly, let alone such a wonderful creature as a Cat…” Its tone dripped disdain.
The children saw many other cats gathering to meet them. Below, the harbour glittered, crowded with painted fishing boats. “How do we get back to the library?” asked Pauline.
“You can’t,” purred the cat. Its whiskers twitched. “Your visit was totally unexpected, so you skewed our continuum, and threw us back by a couple of centuries… Valletta does not exist, yet, because the foundation stone will be laid on March 28, 1566; let alone Old Treasury Street. But here we are, in Valletta, anyway. You’re in the year 1350. And you,” it fixed Fleur with those luminous eyes, “…are made of enchantment.”
“Oh, a Glitch in the Matrix, like they say in the films,” said Lucienne, who spent all her free time reading Science Fiction.
Footsteps reverberated on the cobbles; they were heavy and metallic. The cat’s ears flattened. “Knights Hospitallers,” it hissed. “Best disappear.” The children ran toward a crumbling archway draped in lurid pink bougainvillea. Hidden in the shadows, they watched four Knights clank past. Sunlight glinted off their armour. The cat’s fur bristled. “Patrols. They dislike stray cats and children.” Its gaze lingered on Fleur’s ink-stained fingertip. “Especially like you.”
Lee leaned close, his whisper barely audible over the waves. “How did we end up here?” The cat sighed. “She touched the Veil-Binder. Awakened it.” It paused, ears swivelling toward the distant shouts. “Questions later. Follow.” Slipping soundlessly through the archway, it led them deeper into a labyrinth of alleyways smelling sharply of brine and damp stone. This was literally living history. Iain laughed at his own pun.
The children and the cats emerged into a sunlit courtyard with terracotta pots overflowing with basil and mint. A black cat with fur like liquid midnight came out of an alley and stretched languidly. “Ah, Ink-Smell returns.” Its voice was deep and resonant. “With company.” Fleur braced herself. She had clearly displeased A Very Important Cat.
Nicola the Ginger Cat padded forward. “They crossed unknowing, Francisku. Herald’s Touch upon the Book.” Murmurs rippled through the feline assembly. Francisku tilted his head. “Unbound travellers?” He sniffed the air delicately. “Dangerous.”
“Why are we dangerous?” asked Olivia.
“Shhh!” ordered Francisku. A sharp clang of armour scraping stone and shifting shadows told them that two more Knights Hospitallers had been walking along the street on their way to their Quarters. But when they saw the clowder of cats, they approached to investigate whether anyone was feeding them, since this was against the law enacted by Grandmaster Albertos de Fonseca-Gregarius, who disliked cats.
Chaos erupted. Cats scattered like spilled beads from a broken necklace; under carts, up trees and walls, into houses through open windows. Francisku hissed, “To the Catacombs! Run!”
Panic surged through the children, because they didn’t know where the Catacombs were. As far as they knew, there were Catacombs in Rabat, but not in Valletta. So they just ran blindly after the Nicola and the Cats who were still there, toward the courtyard’s edge. Behind them, a Knight bellowed orders [in vain!] for them to stop. Their lungs burned as they plunged into a shadowed archway, descending steep, narrow steps slick with damp.
The air thickened abruptly; it was cool, smelling of wet earth and rosemary. They sat down, winded. Hundreds of watching feline eyes gleamed in the gloom.
Francisku paced before the massive stone fountain filled with luminous water. “You brought Knights to our sanctuary,” he growled. Fleur flinched. Nicola bristled. “It’s not her fault, Francisku. The Herald chose her.” Fleur stared at her ink-stained finger, which was tingling faintly again. She tried to wipe the ink off on her skirt.
Most of the children had pencil torches in their backpacks, and they took them out. Fleur yanked out her digital camera. If she took photos of the Cats, she would have proof that this really happened. Francisku’s luminous eyes narrowed at the strange device. “What is that shiny thing?”
Fleur’s mind raced. “An… image-taker,” she stammered. “To capture beauty.” She gestured around at the sleek cats lounging on tombs and pedestals, their forms as regal as those in the book that Nanna Kitty had given her – Mafdet, Bastet, Sekhmet, and their Six Breeds of Cats. “People think cats back then, I mean now, I mean whenever, were, are, ugly. But, look at you,”, and she gestured towards the Cats, “…all so beautiful…”
“You wish to trap our images in light?” asked Laurenzu, a scruffy black-and-white cat with many battle scars. “We can wear our armour for the occasion, then…”
The other Cats loved the idea. Chiccu, Cola, and Pina darted here, there, and everywhere, fetching all manner of bits of armour; breastplates, gauntlets, pauldrons, helmets… Johanni, the Calico Cat, nudged Fleur towards the wall opposite luminous basin. “We will stand there, Ink-Smell. The water-light will frame us well.”
The Cats posed for the photo-shoot as if they were professional models. Through the viewfinder, Fleur framed Nicola first. Click! The flash momentarily lit the cavern, refracting from hundreds of watchful feline eyes. Gasps echoed. “It bit the light!” whispered Jianninu, a grey tabby. Fleur smiled shakily. “Not a bite. A picture.” Next came Andrea, looking every inch the feline warlord. Click. Click.Click. Pawla, a fluffy white cat, was a tad camera-shy, so she posed with her visor down.
The distant shouts appeared to be getting closer. Petru, the Cat with the sharpest sense of smell, froze, ears swivelling. “I smell Knights. They have breached the outer wards!” Panic flared. Cats hissed and spat. Fleur shoved her camera deep into her pack. Pina yowled, “The Forgotten Passage! Now!” She bolted towards a narrow crevice at the far end of the corridor, hidden behind a huge, crumbling, statue of the Half-and-Half Cat the twins had met at the Lower Barrakka. Lee pointed at him in surprise, but Fleur just pushed him along.
The children all made it inside the Forgotten Passage just in time. The luminous water in the basin churned violently and overflowed, and the Knights had to leave the cavern.
The passage, smelling of brine and seaweed, snaked downward. It seemed to go on forever.
At the end of it, the children walked out not, as they expected, onto the beach, but into a suffocating silence they recognised instantly. Sunlight streamed through the Bibliotheca’s high windows, illuminating swirling dust motes. They slumped on the benches, tired and totally bewildered.
The leather-bound Mediaeval Cats volume lay open before them… displaying the same grotesque cat Fleur had touched. Its bulbous eyes still seemed to glare accusingly, but something in its expression had changed. Her finger still tingled faintly. “Did… did we just…?” Violet breathed, her voice shaky. Fleur took out her camera. The air felt thick, unreal. The clang of armour, the purr of Francisku and the other cats, the sounds and scent of the sea… all these had vanished, replaced by the hush of the library. Yet they had rough limestone grit in their hair, on their clothes and under their fingernails.
Hands trembling, Fleur fumbled to open her camera. The group crowded close as she scrolled through the images: all the cats were there: Nicola, Andrea, Francisku… Each frame pulsed with impossible reality; the sleek cats against authentic medieval stonework, bathed in that ethereal basin-light. “Proof,” Fleur whispered, exhilaration bubbling through her exhaustion. At the back of her mind, she was asking herself why Miss Marija and the other children had not asked her group where they had been.
“Miss Marija! Look!” Lee shouted, and the Librarian and her Assistants looked up from their desks, ready to send the children away. Fleur thrust the camera almost into Miss Marija’s face. “Look! Mediaeval Malta! The cats… they were beautiful! They talked!”
The elderly librarian strode angrily toward Fleur, who showed her the tiny screen. She adjusted her glasses and smirked with sceptical amusement. “AI, isn’t it, clever girl?” she murmured, tapping the screen. “Or, perhaps, Photoshop? Very clever textures. Those fur details! Or maybe Deepfakes… Cool effects, though.” Her dismissive smile said even more. The children were dismayed that their wonderful time-travel adventure had been reduced to pixels that anyone could have created.
Miss Marija put out her had for the camera, and zoomed in on Francisku’s majestic form. “Look at his eyes! That intelligence! The chainmail’s rust pattern – how did you manage this?” she asked Fleur, whose her ink-stained fingertip was now throbbing, and not just tingling. She pressed it hard against the table, and it became a low thrum, resonating in the wood like a plucked harp.
The book moved. Nobody had touched it. Fleur’s stomach knotted. The words on the page had become pulsing glyphs, and in the Reading Room there came the smell of the sea, superimposed on the other smells. The shadows beneath the bookshelves seemed deeper, darker, and the rays of sunlight was not as brigh . The manuscript’s “ugly” cat seemed to grin knowingly, and… it raised a paw as if to wave goodbye.
The ink disappeared from Fleur’s finger, and a ripple of something – light, sound, pressure – pulsed outwards from it.
The children, Miss Marija, and the Librarian and her Assistants, gasped. The pages of the book were turning, one by one Lee choked, pointing frantically.. Where the ludicrous cat drawings had been, something utterly different shimmered into view. Not paint or ink, but crisp, luminous pixels: Paulu, Angelica, Francisku, Chiccu, Cola, Andrea, Laurenzu… they were all there. Every illustration in the open book was shifting, morphing. The elongated, monstrous cats dissolved like smoke. In their place bloomed Fleur’s photos. The images glowed with the catacomb’s basin-light. Time fractured, again.
The librarian’s AI accusation still stung. Yet here were Fleur’s recent photos, etched permanently onto centuries-old vellum with incredible clarity and light. The “proof” wasn’t just in her camera; it was woven into the book itself, undeniable and irrevocable. The book pulsed with feline magnificence.
The librarian fainted, dropping her glasses. The book began to smoke faintly at the edges, the new feline portraits shimmering iridescently, before settling down once and for all.
Miss Marija and the children bid goodbye to the Assistants, tiptoed out of the Reading Room, and went to eat their packed lunch at Palace Square.
The book is no longer available for viewing. And the photographs disappeared from Fleur’s camera.
According to The New York Times, women are ruining the workplace. But since fairness is fashionable, let’s talk about how men are perfecting that very art; one coffee cup, aftershave cloud, and midnight email, at a time.
The Mansplainer-in-Chief
Every office has one. He’s the man who believes that every woman in the building has been waiting all her life for his pearls of rehashed wisdom. You can have thirty years’ experience, and an alphabet of degrees; but he’s still going to explain your own job to you. Slowly. With diagrams and lots of waving about of hands and facial contortions, if necessary.
Then there’s Mr Superior, the man who just cannot get his head around the idea that “same grade” does actually mean “equal.” He’ll nod politely while you talk, roll his eyes, then repeat your idea louder, ten minutes later, and get praised for his “initiative”. He doesn’t even notice he’s done it. It’s muscle memory by now, a.k.a. corporate manspreading of the intellect.
When the Boss Wears Heels
Should fate ever place him under a female boss, brace yourself for the drama. Suddenly, every instruction becomes a suggestion to be interpreted creatively. The male ego does not take kindly to answering to a woman, not unless she’s the receptionist offering coffee. Then suddenly he’s all smarmy smiles and politeness.
Speaking of coffee, there’s an unspoken office tradition that women “ought” to make it; you know, since you’re up anyway. Never mind that you’re up because you’re working. The men, of course, can’t make tea. Not because they’re incapable, but because they’re busy. There’s something Very Important to See To: discussing last night’s football match, or standing at attention by the window as if mind-melding with Prodigy, Weyland-Yutani, Lynch, Dynamic and Threshold, all at once.
Compliments and Other Crimes
Consider the personal comments, that charming male habit of providing unsolicited feedback on your appearance. “You look tired today” (translation: I’ve run out of small talk), or “Nice dress” (translation: I just remembered you’re not a piece of office furniture). They’ll never say such things to another man. No one ever tells Reuben from Records that his new trousers really accentuate his calves.
Call them out on it and suddenly you’re a feminazi, a term apparently invented to describe any woman who refuses to smile, to look prettier, while being patronised.
Sports, Sweat, and the Scent of Self-Importance
Meanwhile, the office is their kingdom. They hold court over sports talk; endlessly, loudly, and with the conviction of theologians. All coaches would resign en masse, thanking these people, who could take their place in a thrice, if only they knew about their existence. If you say you don’t follow football, they look at you as if you’ve just announced you said the world is flat.
Their personal habits are a separate saga. Some pick their noses like they’re mining for plutonium. Others cough, sneeze, and yawn their way through meetings without so much as a hand raised in apology. Hygiene, it seems, is a fussy female conspiracy… especially to the guy who uses Breath Mints to mask [or so he thinks] his halitosis.
Let’s not forget The Gym Guy. He’s the one who arrives straight from his morning run, brimming over with virtue signalling and self-righteous energy, marinated in aftershave powerful enough to fumigate a boardroom. “Just came from the gym,” he announces, as though we couldn’t smell it with our noises plugged.
Lunch Hour Logic and Late-Night Emails
At lunch, the contrast sharpens. The women open their neat little containers; leftovers magicked into a salad, or something sensible. The men? They’ve brought something the size and smell of a small volcano, or bought the smelliest wraps available. The whole office ends up marinating in the aroma of reheated meat and regret. But of course, they’re men. Appetite equals ambition. Table manners fly out of the window, because, since they eat at their desk, there is no need for them…
Emails, too, become a gendered weapon. The 11:47 p.m. email is the hallmark of the self-important male professional. “Just following up,” he writes, with the expectation that you, mere mortal, are also glued to your phone at midnight. If you’re not, you’re “not committed.” Because apparently, sleep is unprofessional.
The Boys’ Club
Then there’s the eternal Boys’ Club, that invisible boardroom within the boardroom. The jokes are always “just this side of legal,” and the networking always happens somewhere women aren’t; the bar, the football match, the backslapping dinner. If you don’t laugh at their jokes, you’re uptight. If you do, you’re “one of the lads”, and the office humour will become bawdier because ‘you don’t mind a joke or six’. Congratulations: you’ve just been downgraded from “woman” to “mascot.” In very serious cases, this turns into a broligarchy; that rabid small group of men who control a situation, influence, or power structure, the epitome of toxic masculinity.
Ageism and sexism walk hand in hand here, smug as newlyweds. A man over 40 is “seasoned”. A woman over 40 is “past her prime”. A young man in management is “a rising star.” A young woman in management is “a bit ambitious, isn’t she?” Translation: how dare she aim higher than the filing cabinet…
Romance and Other Office Hazards
Let’s not forget the ‘men’ who treat the office as a dating app with desks. The wink, the lingering handshake, the “just kidding” comments about your outfit… all dismissed as harmless. Until, of course, HR gets involved, and then it’s suddenly a misunderstanding. “I was only being friendly!” he pleads. Sure – in the same way a mosquito is friendly when it flies up your nostril.
The same men who create these atmospheres are also the loudest about “supporting women.” They’ll post a #RespectWomen hashtag on Women’s Day, simultaneously with interrupting one in a meeting.
In Defence of Sanity (and Tea)
To be fair, ‘not all men’ are like this. Some are genuinely respectful, competent, and perfectly capable of making their own tea. They don’t assume deodorant is a foible, or that management skills need a Y chromosome. But for every one of those gems, there’s a small army of others convinced that feminism is an elaborate plot to deprive them of their oh-so-comfortable swivel chairs.
If we’re going to talk about who’s ruining the workplace, let’s be honest: it’s not the women who ask for equal pay, or flexible hours, or maternity rights. It’s the men who think professionalism is gendered, that leadership looks best in a tie, and that “teamwork” means women do the invisible labour while they take the credit.
The male of the species may indeed be more managerial. But the female of the species is the reason the place still functions at all.
Postscript: For Those Who Might Be Offended
If you disagree with any one thing or all of the above – congratulations! You’ve just proven my point. You’ll probably send me an email about it, too. At midnight.
If men ran the world as efficiently as they run their mouths in meetings, we’d have colonised Mars by now. If you found this offensive, relax with a cup of tea.
There’s bound to be a woman nearby who’ll make it for you… but only if it’s her turn, since you made hers yesterday…
If I were coffee, you’d say I was too strong — too bitter, too stark. The kind that tells the truth even when you’d rather it didn’t.
You’d flinch at the aftertaste; that moment when what I said sinks in… the words I won’t unsay, the truths you can’t unhear.
I’d answer in monosyllables, like a ristretto; short, sharp, leaving more silence than sound.
I’d insist on being poured into glass, because I want to be seen For who and what I am; layers, swirls, imperfections; not hidden in porcelain pretence of cups or false bonhomie of mugs.
And yes, I’d add milk to an Americano, just because I can. Because rules, like people, are easier to swallow when you mellow them a little.
You’d remember my scent long after I’ve gone; that ghost of warmth and bitterness that clings to your sleeve; A speckle of a stain that refuses to wash out.
Whenever you drink coffee Wherever you drink coffee… You pause. Because something in the taste feels familiar, and you won’t know whether to smile or wince; Remembering the one who was – is… The right kind of strong.
– A penny for them? – What? Oh, erm, sorry. How may I help you? – I’m looking for a book… – Yes? – A book. I mean, can you suggest a book for me? – Well, it depends. – I won’t take up too much of your time, promise. I can see that you’re busy. – It’s not that. It’s that I don’t know you. – We can remedy that. – Sorry, but… – No, no, I am not trying to chat you up. I meant, I can tell you something about myself, and we’ll take it from there. – Oh. – Just for the record, I do know something about you… – Erm… – You love to cook, you have cats, and you are kind. – Erm… how… – I can’t be a coincidence that whenever I come to get a book, your lunch is different. You often have cat hairs on your clothes, and I notice that you keep a stack of shop-soiled books to give away to old people and children, with their purchases. – That is, erm, very perceptive of you. But, about your book… – About me, rather, no? I am looking for a series that has fantasy and intelligent humour, and maybe merchandising, including maybe a recipe book, that I may get for my nephews and nieces when they come over. They’re teens, and I have forbidden the use of screens in my house. – That’s good. Mind you, they can read on their devices, can’t they? – Oh, sure. But nothing beats the feel and smell of a book. So, as I was saying… – You weren’t actually… – Quite. I want a series that is fun, and has magic, but not Harry Potter style, travel, interesting characters, maybe a parallel universe, word-play, extensive vocabulary, colourful covers… quite a tall order, I think… – Discworld! – I beg your pardon? – The series has all this, and more. I am surprised that you have never heard of it…Tell me more, do. – Well, the world is flat, and it is carried by four elephants riding on the back of a turtle; a gigantic one, as you can imagine. – Surely you jest? – Oh, not at all. You might want to look up Terry Pratchett – that’s the deceased author of the series – on Facebook. – Facebook? – Well, if you went to the Discworld Wiki you’d be stuck there for a month… at least. – Frankly, I would rather talk about this over coffee. Are you free this evening? – I thought you’d never ask. hashtag#lovehashtag#peoplehashtag#facebookhashtag#facebookhashtag#coffeehashtag#help
paperjacketblog 