I had ravaging  teenage acne. Just when I had started to pluck enough courage to crawl out of my rural shell, and replace the  book dust  on my clothes with human dandruff that wasn't mine, my hitherto transparent skin burst into volcanic vengeance.

At first I thought it was there for a week, but it became tomato red, filled with pus, and burst just when I was trying to impress, so I just increased my face cleaning vigour, and hoped for the best. But when weeks turned to months and whatever treatment I sought let me down, I became weary of the struggle and started to withdraw back into my bookshelves which weren't mine because I had very few.

The Medical School Library and the University Library became my sanctuary (I was sixteen). Mirrors  became a no, no. I didn't seek company my age for a while because it was too difficult to look people in the face with  angry red mountain  ranges flanking my nose and decorating my already prominent chin. Sometimes I even got a bonus, a Vesuvius on the tip of my nose, so there really was no point in dressing up and combing my hair. I looked dirty anyway and for a while dates were definitely out if the question, because I never knew when Vesuvius would strike again .

Still, though I was sad and upset about it, I didn't let the scourge pull me down completely.  I decided to wait it out in a dignified manner.

So I occupied the most remote and concealed desk in the library, read and studied  my day away, and whenever  I needed to go anywhere where  normal people went, I put a couple of books in my bag so that if everyone was chatting away with someone else and I wasn't  I could bury my face in a book and read myself into another world.

So books saved me then. They were my companions through that formidable teenage crisis, and through all the other crises that have made my life so extraordinarily interesting. I hardly ever leave the house without a book in my handbag, and my car is invariably littered with potential  inky companions.

So this week my partner Godfrey was very sick, more sick than we could cope with at home and sick to the point that we had to seek hospital care. We both thought that was a bad moment , but we also knew that it probably wasn't the worst but just a harbinger of what was to come.

So we packed a bag and drove in silence to Mater Dei. And Godfrey started responding to treatment.

The next day Mr Mattocks broke the news in the gentlest most professional way.

It was more serious than we thought. We had a crisis on our hands. 

When Mr Mattocks left, Godfrey looked at me for solutions of the moment.

I reached into my weathered bag. Got out a copy of Pierre J.Mejlak's ' dak li l-lejl ihallik tghid', and started reading aloud to Godfrey.

At first it was one story, then another and another. Pierre's ingeniously human narrative made us laugh and cry at the same time. 

I read away, till Godfrey fell into a peaceful slumber.

And I lay awake for most of the night thinking about dak li l-lejl Ma Jhallikx tghid.