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QAMAR   Rif. għal darba f’qamar. L-espr. t-tajba hija darba f’mitt qamar, u tfisser rarament.

SKUFJA   Kappa tas-suf jew tal-għażel maħduma b’mod li tagħfas mar-ras minn fuq u b’żigarella tinżel mal-għonq u tinqafel taħt il-geddum. Din tintlibes l-aktar min-nisa u għaldaqstant tkun iddekorata mit-tarf bil-bizzilla. Tintlibes ukoll mis-sorijiet u tista’ wkoll tinħiet għat-trabi. L-espressjoni figurattiva ‘għadu jilbes l-iskufja’ tfisser li għadu qisu tarbija fl-imġiba tiegħu. Il-qawl ‘Kieku kelli nbigħ l-iskufji kieku t-trabi jitwieldu bla ras,’ jirreferi għal xi ħadd li fin-negozju jsofri dejjem.

Sors: Il-Qawl Iqul, p. 135.

Richard Evans and Joe Barton, both in their fifties, bachelors and long-time friends, were walking in the park. They crossed the narrow make-shift wooden bridge and headed towards the river bank where they would sit on the grass and talk on whatever takes their fancy at the moment. It was a lovely Sunday in the Spring of 1999.

“There’s the annual traditional fair next week Richard. It’s been sometime since I’ve last been there. Shall we go and see what’s happening, what do you say?” asked Joe as he sat down on the moist grass. “The Fair eh!  I don’t know Joe. I’ll tell you what happened to me at the Fair years ago. I haven’t told this experience to anyone else before.That is if you are in the listening mood, of course,” replied Richard.

“Yes. Yes. I’m listening. This must be interesting if you kept it to yourself all these years,” said Joe.  Richard sat down beside his friend and began recounting his story:-

“It was a day like today. Sunday, the end of Spring heralded the Summer season of exactly thirty years ago. The Fair was on. I was one of the thousands who went to visit it, more out of curiosity than for anything else. I sort of surprised myself that day. As you very well know, I am a very shy and introvert person who does not make friends easily. I always keep a step or two back from entering into a conversation, or from saying ‘hello’ to a person smiling at me, or from encouraging any familiarity whatsoever. 

I was roaming from one place to another, watching people, young and old, enjoying themselves with the various kinds of entertainment being offered from the many stalls, tents and booths. It was a lovely day, the sun was shining after a bad winter and the people were making a day of it. 

I was watching people on the merry-go-round as I clutched a small bottle of water in my hands. Then I saw her. She was wearing a short multi-coloured summer dress tied with narrow black belt at the waist. She was so pretty!  She was holding on to her dress as she spun round and round on the merry-go-round. 

She saw me looking at her and smiled at me. I felt shy to smile back. Then, on the second round, she appeared again in front of me, still clutching her skirt with one hand. But she waved at me with her other hand. I just lifted my hand slowly and sort of waved back. I made just a small movement with my hand really. 

When the merry-go-round stopped, she got down, looked out for me, joined her friends and went to find other entertainment. I was mesmerised by her. I moved on, looking here and there, seeing what’s available, what’s interesting, more to pass the time than to take part in any ride or join in the fun. Then I sat on a bench to rest, taking a sandwich out of my case. I saw her again half an hour later. She passed in front of me with her two companions, recognized me, waved directly at me and smiled. What was I to do? I did smile back and waved again but did not leave the bench to follow her. Maybe I should have done that.!

Then she dropped a leaflet she was carrying, could have been the Fair’s programme or something. Maybe she had dropped it on purpose hoping to encourage me to come near her and talk to her. I was pondering whether I should run after her, pick up the leaflet and give it to her. That should have been my immediate impulse of course, but I was caught in two minds. I was rooted on the spot. It was my shyness of course. Suddenly a young man stepped forward, picked up the leaflet and gave it to her with a smile and a bow. They started talking and, to my dismay, he kept walking with her. I was the nearest person when she dropped the leaflet but was too slow to act. I didn’t see her again. The sun was setting down and I made it to the exit and took a bus home. But her face, her smile and her wave kept coming back to me every day. The ‘meeting’ with this beautiful girl, brief and from a distance as it happened, was always on my mind.  

For thirty years after that, every year without fail, I went to the annual Funfair in the hope of meeting her once more. I was determined to talk to her and, at least, learn her name. But I never saw her again! Last year the Fair was back again as usual at the beginning of the Summer season. I went again, more out of  habit than anything else. I had been walking around among the stalls and rides for some time, felt tired and sat down on a seat overlooking the merry-go-round. 

A middle-aged lady came and sat next to me. She looked tired too and I was sure that there were tears in her eyes. Then she looked at me and said. “I used to come here every year when I was a young lass.”  “So did I” I replied. “I met my late husband here,” she went on. Then she smiled at me. There was no mistaking it. It was her!

I was dumbfounded and just looked at her in disbelief. Then she said. “I nearly met a nice young man at this Fair one year, many years ago.”  I just listened, still could not believe my eyes. “He was eyeing me and I was sure that he was interested. So I dropped my programme hoping that he would pick it up and we would start talking”. I did not speak one word, just listened to her recounting the incident which for so many years was still fresh in my memory.

“He was such a nice young man”, she continued. “But he never picked it up. I think that he was going to, however the man who became my husband beat him to it!” she said. As Richard stopped his long recount, Joe brought his hand to his mouth in surprise. “What a sad and fascinating story,”  he said. “You know something? I don’t like Fairs. Never have done!” Richard responded calmly. 

“You don’t like Fairs? And you kept going there every year for thirty long years!” said Joe. “No. no. This was just a story. I made it up! Just my imagination! It never happened. I’ve never been to the Fair!” replied Richard.

Joseph Henry Abela, Qassis

Malli nitwieldu nibdew noħolmu u nistħajlu x’jista’ jkollna u kif  nistgħu nkunu u għalhekk min jersaq lejna u leħnu jkun ħelu u melliesi, aktarx jimlielek qalbek u tħossok fis-seba’ sema u torqod hieni jew hienja.

Tgħaġġilx, stenna għax iż-żmien isajjar il-bajtar. Ħafna jwegħduk ġenna fl-art jew sbuħija mill-aqwa – dar, karozza, tieġ. Oqgħod pass lura! Moħħok jimtela mill-ewwel u maż-żmien taqsam qalbek. U issa ma tafda lil ħadd.

Kun dħuli, żomm kelmtek, tqarraqx imma tistenniex li ħaddieħor se jagħmel l-istess. Fejn tista’ medd idejk u toħroġ aħjar fil-ħin.

Ibni li tixtieq ġo moħħok u fittex l-għajnuna, imma sserraħx fuq l-oħrajn għax tibqa’ b’xiber imnieħer. Tixtrix ħut fil-baħar! Kien hemm bosta li bi sħab ftehmu u wara ntebħu li s-sħab fis-sema.

Imxi pass pass u tasal kmieni u qalbek ma taqsamhiex. Hekk il-ħajja; duq u ara, qis u aqta’. Tiftaħx il-bieb beraħ għax riefnu ta’ dwejjaq jista’ joħodulek.

Charles B. Spiteri

Raġel minn Florida, qabad u qatel serp Burmiż enormi, u l-uffiċjali tal-ħajja selvaġġa qalu li s-serp hu l-itwal wieħed tar-razza tiegħu li qatt inqabad fl-istat.

Jason Leon qabad is-serp ta’ 128 libbra, li hu twil 18-il pied u tmien pulzieri, waqt li kien qed jivvjaġġa ma’ xi ħbieb tiegħu f’vetturi li jinsaqu fuq kull art.

Leon, student fl-Università Internazzjonali ta’ Florida, li għandu 23 sena, lemaħ xi tliet piedi tas-serp, ħiereġ minn arbuxell. Peress li kellu esperjenza kif jaqbad lil dawn is-sriep, għax darba kien iżomm minnhom bħala annimali domestiċi, ipprova jaqbdu. Iżda s-serp, qabeż fl-azzjoni.

F’ħin qasir, is-serp iddawwar ma’ saqajh it-tnejn u ma’ idu. Kien jaf li kellu jżommu ’l bogħod minn għonqu. Iżda ma beżax. Kien hemm tnejn min-nies oħra u kien ċert li jekk ikun jeħtieġ l-għajnuna, kienu jagħtuhielu.

Leon spiċċa qatel lis-serp b’sikkina, u wara informa lill-uffiċjali tal-ħajja selvaġġa fi Florida fuq is-serp enormi li qabad. Dawn qalu li s-serp maqbud minn Leon kiser ir-rekord preċedenti għall-itwal serp Burmiż, li nqabad fi Florida, u li kien twil 17-il pied u seba’ pulzieri. Huma rringrazzjaw lil Leon talli ħelishom minn serp hekk kbir u talli rrapporta l-qabda tiegħu.

Ir-riċerkaturi jsostnu li dawn is-sriep huma ta’ periklu enormi għall-ekosistema.

QANA   Mhix kanal tal-ġebel, imma bħal speċi ta’ ħawt ftit usa’ mill-bramel tas-sienja, u timtela bl-ilma meta dawn iferrgħu l-ilma għal ġo fiha. Il-qana tkun magħquda mal-kanali tal-ġebel, li jwasslu l-ilma fejn iridu l-bdiewa. Hemm ukoll il-qana tal-bir, bħal ħofra ċatta ħdejn il-bir biex l-ilma tas-sieqja jinżel l-ewwel ġo fiha. Nota: Il-vokali ta’ din il-kelma huma qosra bħal f’qata’.

Sors: Anton F. Attard.

Charles B. Spiteri

L-akbar katina ta’ nies biex ifaqqgħu l-crackers tal-Milied kienet rekordjata fit-13 ta’ Diċembru tas-sena l-oħra f’Birmingham. Din l-attività tniżżlet fil-Guinness Book of Records wara li ħaddiema tal-uffiċċju, ħaddiema tar-ristorant, nies li kienu qed jixtru u oħrajn li kienu mexjin fit-triq, ingħaqdu fi Brindleyplace waqt ħin l-ikel biex b’total ta’ 749 ruħ li jfaqqgħu l-crackers waqqfu r-rekord għall-itwal katina ta’ nies.

Qabel, l-itwal rekord kien dak b’603 parteċipanti f’Tobacco Dock  f’Londra. Dan ir-rekord twettaq ukoll fit-2 ta’ Novembru tas-sena li għaddiet.

RIKUŻA   Terminu legali. Talba li ssir minn xi parti f’kawża, sew jekk kriminali u wkoll jew ċivili, biex il-ġudikant ma joqgħodx fil-kawża, u dan għal xi waħda mir-raġunijiet li jsemmi l-Kodiċi tal-Proċedura u/jew minħabba ksur ta’ xi dritt fundamentali u kostituzzjonali tal-individwu. Ir-rikuża hija intimament marbuta mal-bażi stess tal-amministrazzjoni tal-ġustizzja. It-terminu  ġej mill-verb Taljan ricusare – jiġifieri rrifjuta jew waqqaf milli jsir xi proċediment; ma aċċettax li jkun inkarigat xi ħadd partikulari. Eż. Il-gvern irrikuża tnejn mill-imħallfin. Jew, ‘Il-President tal-Qrati rriġetta r-rekużazzjoni tiegħu.’

Ħajr: L-Imħallef Emeritu Philip Sciberras.

I was on flight KM 103 from London on its way to Malta. It was a comfortable three hour flight. White cotton-like clouds floated beneath us. The pilot had already announced that we were descending to our destination where the weather was sunny. I looked from the small window and saw the Maltese landscape coming nearer and nearer.

Then I opened my handbag and took out the black and white photograph, now yellow and wrinkled with the passing of the years, and held it tight in my hands. The photo showed a young man with a small girl perched on his shoulders. His full black hair was smoothed down and glossy with ‘Brylcream’. A wide grin was on his face. I remember very well when that photo was taken. It was on my eighth birthday at Golden Bay where the family used to go sunning and swimming in the hot summer months. How we laughed and enjoyed ourselves on that golden beach. 

I turned the photo over. The words ‘Champion of Golden Bay’ were written in black ink. They were Mum’s words. She liked to put captions on the back of family photos.  I smiled as I remembered how proud my father was of this photo and of Mum’s caption on its back. I loved this photo too and made it a point to take it with me when I left home. I remember that Mum had shouted to Dad to put me down but he laughed and held me even higher.  That must have been sixteen years ago now. How time flies!

Mum had phoned me yesterday from home, informing me that Dad has had a relapse and was taken to hospital where he was diagnosed to be in a serious condition. He was losing his battle with big C. She had urged me to come back home without delay. I took the first flight home. He had been ill for some months now, but I never thought that it was that serious. However Dad was a fighter; he would not give up easily. “Please God let him live!” I murmured as I looked at our old, fading photo once again. 

I was eager to be at the hospital and see Dad. I remembered how he always encouraged me to improve my position in life; he gave me confidence to overcome everyday problems; his words of wisdom still rang loudly in my ears – “Don’t judge a book by its cover”; “You cannot stop the future and you cannot rewind the past”; “the Lord works in mysterious ways”; “A stitch in time saves nine”; “take care of your pennies and the pounds will take care of themselves”; and so many others, all with a meaning and a lesson.

The plane had now landed in Malta. The sun, as predicted by the pilot on flight, was blazing. I alighted from the plane, passed through customs, found myself at the ‘Arrivals’ lounge, dragged my small luggage outside the terminal and hailed a taxi. 

“Mater Dei hospital”, I directed the driver. He looked at me a second time. It’s not often that a flight passenger takes a taxi direct to the hospital. “I hope everything’s all right Miss” he said in an attempt to console me. “Yes, yes “, I replied looking blankly away from  him. I was dropped at the entrance, hurried inside and asked for directions at the reception. “Follow the ‘Blue’ line, second floor.” They told me. I followed, as instructed, took the lift and again asked for the ward. “Second room on your right,” they told me. My feet felt as heavy as lead but I hurried on. 

I saw him as I entered the ward. How frail he has become, I thought. Mum was by his side, holding his hands. I tiptoed in quietly. “Hi Dad, Hi Mum” I asked and went straight to embrace them both. I opened both my arms and held them close to me. 

“Oh Jennifer, Jennifer!” exclaimed my Mum. “I was telling Dad that you were on your way”. She looked relieved to see me. I kissed Dad on both cheeks, held on to his hands and asked “How are you Dad?”

“I’m fine Princess”, he said. “They are fussing too much over me really, I’ll be out of this hospital in no time, you mark my words”. But he did not look fine to me. Propped up in his hospital bed, he looked a shadow of his former self. His pyjamas looked two sizes too big for him. 

We sat there, the three of us, occasionally interrupted by the nurse who came in to give him an injection, adjust his bed equipment and to mark his note board, which hung by his bed. “It’s so nice to see you Princess”, he said to me as he looked at me with his loving eyes. “Listen Dad” I replied. “I came across an old holiday photo a few days ago. The one taken at Golden Bay where you’re balancing me on your shoulders, remember?”  “Of course I remember” he said. “You were only eight years old and as light as a feather”.  

“Dad, you’ll win this battle, I know. You and Mum and I will walk out of this hospital together arm in arm like we used to do years ago”, I said, convinced that he’d win and pull through in the end. His fingers tighten around mine. He smiles at me the way he always smiled at me and, suddenly, I have to struggle to keep back the tears. “I’m going to beat this thing, you know”, Dad whispers as I bend over to kiss his cheek. I doubted whether he really meant it or whether he wanted us to believe that there was some hope after all.

He looked so tired, so worn-out and so in pain, that I felt so sorry for him. I wanted, at that moment, to encourage him as he used to encourage me so often when I was younger. “I know you will”, I say with a certainty I felt in my heart.  “Remember Dad, you are the Champion of Golden Bay. You will always fight like a champion!!”