Two English friends of mine, Peter and Tom, had long wanted to visit Malta. Peter, an old pen-pal from our teenage years, that is long before the advent of e-mail, had been hearing, probably ad nauseam, of “our sunshine” and “our sea” for over 40 years but simply never got round to experiencing them due to relentless work and family pressures. In the autumn of last year, however, he finally decided to book a long-overdue Malta holiday for himself and his son Tom. The dates at the time seemed just right and almost distant: 7, 8 and 9 March.

I knew the New Year would bring a general election, but could hardly expect him to pick exactly election weekend! I e-mailed the news immediately to him, hoping that he would consider postponing the happy event. So what, came Peter’s reply, we won’t stop you from going to vote, he joked.

I had to explain better what a general election here really means. It was one piece of diplomacy that, given the chance, I honestly could have done without. I tried to describe how tense it could all be and how seriously we took our petty politics. On the other hand, I did not want to make him think he would not be welcome or that he was somehow interfering with our daily lives, which of course he wasn’t. I elucidated about the long-drawn process of counting, the car cades, the noise, the fireworks and the general atmosphere of “national conundrum” that often permeate a Maltese general election. As I did so, I tried to sound as matter-of-fact and worldly wise as possible lest he took us for a banana republic to which we, truly and surely, may not be that dissimilar.

Peter, however, is an old war dog. He was in Northern Ireland during the worst years of social and political turmoil there, an Englishman giving his unlikely backing to the likes of Bernadette Levin in her fight for civil rights, so no Maltese carnival was bound to scare him away. It could even be fun, he told me in an amusing message that instantly put paid to the delicate debate on the wisdom of holidaying in Malta at election time. I consoled myself thinking it could work in my favour after all as I would have better things to do other than waiting patiently, in between exchanging myriad telephone calls and SMSs, for the people’s verdict on who is to run these islands for the next five hiccups.

Peter and Tom arrived on what we know as “the day of silence”, which rather gives the impression the whole Maltese race is just about to go into the trauma of committing national hara-kiri. As we drove away from the airport, I pointed out the political billboards being removed or undressed as per the parties’ agreement to avoid unnecessary vandalism. Civilised lot, aren’t we, was my hapless hint to two completely disinterested men rightly much more eager at that moment in time to know about the Neolithic temples, Gozo and the pretty bays.

I have never been one to vote too early at an election, but on Saturday 8 March I was doing so at 7.15am to make sure I had no other worries while I took my English friends to some places of interest, including Gozo. Predictably, things did not quite work out like I wanted them to. The sun I had been writing to Peter about for four whole decades, simply refused to come out. OK, I quipped holding firmly to the old cliché, I cannot guarantee nice weather.

Valletta that day was much quieter than usual, I told them as we strolled down Republic Street on our way to the Malta Experience. I had forgotten all about the fuss that would inevitably be taking place outside the school – a polling station – in that area. I cannot say they were as marvelled by the sight of so many people and stone-faced policemen as they were with the Caravaggio in St John’s, but there was a hint of contained hilarity in their eyes.

Getting to Gozo, I told Peter and Tom, will be easy. We’ll just drive along the various bypasses, our miniature versions of the UK motorways, from Valletta and, hey presto, just board the locally built ferry to the island of the three hills. My vocabulary had by now become MTA standard. As easy as taking the tube from Euston to Victoria minus the London underground crowds, I parroted away. It was polling day and Gozo would be like a cemetery waiting for the Final Judgement.

I could not have been more wrong. When we drove down the last hill from Ghadira Bay to Cirkewwa it became obvious it was going to be a long, long wait before we made it onto the ferry. I suddenly remembered that half of Malta had an ID card address in Gozo and so would be out in force to not only make sure they voted, but also to make a day out of it. The result was that our turn to drive onto the Gaudos came two hours later, during which we had just queued in our car listening to some boring music and exchanging jokes about the awful weather. Once at the other end, we drove straight to Marsalforn where, at 15.45 and with the light already fading, it was even difficult to find a place where to have a decent lunch. Please rewind this paragraph for a picture of the return trip to the mainland.

Sunday was no less effervescent.

The sun forced itself out every now and then while I drove Peter and Tom to Hagar Qim, which we had to see from a distance, and then to the Three Cities, historical, and my mum’s place, sentimental, in Kalkara. During all of this time, we kept going past claxon-happy cars with red-and-white and Labour flags flying to the sound of cheering small crowds and the odd petard in places like Zurrieq, Paola, Senglea, Cospicua, Vittoriosa and Fgura.

“Ah,” remarked Peter in Pink Panther tones, “it seems people already know who’s won”, to which I acted as impartial and as objective as I could possibly be, even going as far as saying I hoped they were not jumping the gun. I deserve an honorary Oscar for both my coolness and political foresight. Still, it was all red-and-white back to Sliema for lunch at home with the family.

Then, when it was time to walk back with Peter and Tom to their hotel in Spinola Bay, the colour of the flags flying from passing cars and beaming passers-by seemed to have suddenly changed. So did the colour on my face, Peter told me later. The rest is history. My English friends could not sleep in what was their last night on the island because of the noise outside and the revelry in nearby Paceville. As if that wasn’t enough, their early-morning departure meant checking out before the carpet of empty beer bottles and cans had been removed from the street outside the Hotel Juliani. Peter wanted fun and he certainly got it. “We needed boots to trample out of our hotel and into a waiting taxi,” he wrote from the saner environment of his home. They had earlier politely declined my offer to drive them to the airport, later explaining, tongue in cheek, they had concluded I would not exactly be too happy driving past and within the unavoidable blue car cades. So they had, after all, learnt something about a Maltese general election, I mused contentedly. It’s funny with hindsight.