As we get older something happens to us and even our character changes. We also understand better the ways of the world and the workings of society. We are more psychologically equipped to deal with the negatives of life.

I no longer coax and nurture people I don’t particularly like, just so that they approve of me. I no longer display delight, even euphoria just so that I am liked. By now I am short of time.

I cling on to some idealism but I know, in my heart of hearts, that sense will not solve the population problem; that exposure on television of dreadful scenes will not stop wars; technology will not restore the rainforests or the ozone layer; that nothing is going to stop refugees coming to Europe unless we provide for better lives for them in their own country.

I know now that sense has always been a rare commodity and that the young will continue to be lured into the world of drugs; that the fight of a handful of idealists to keep them off them is a long and lonely battle and only a few will give them up. The barons out there are stronger and for every drug addict that is cured they will have another two in their grasp in no time.

I go on admiring those who help out and give their time, even their life to those addicted but shall we ever have a drug free society? Some years ago, not knowing what I know now, I still believed we could. With age I realise we shall never achieve it.

I have had to learn detachment too. You don’t learn it really. Circumstances force it upon you. You teach yourself to let go as you know that if you don’t you will only get hurt. You have to adapt yourself to circumstances and learn to go with the tide.

As I was busy tearing up files and piles of paper some weeks ago, to clear out a cupboard and to put it to better use, I came across minutes and agendas of at least half a dozen organisations to which I had belonged and on which I had lavished my time and energy. My diary was full of meetings. Every other evening there was some get together which I had to attend, back then.

These papers presented me with several gobbets of information, useless but interesting. I will browse through anything and the temptation to go through this particular pile of forgotten papers, before I disposed of them, was too much to resist.

There they were, in neat files. Papers written and discussed. Draft reports. Appendices. Resolutions. Decisions taken. Keynote papers replete with good ideas, suggestions and hope. Motions. Counter motions. Soon, they would be put into a brown plastic bag and become part of life’s detritus. Why didn’t someone with experience tell me then, that I was wasting my time? That all this would come to nought? That most of those hopes for a better world expressed on paper and during meetings would remain just that, hopes? Ha and ha again, I said to myself as I disposed of these files which represented hours and hours of toil.

I would really have liked to recycle them. Something inside me told me I should. Take them to work and the men with large bags would take them to the recycling plant. But I stifled the thought and bundled them up with the potato peelings and the guts of my lampuki thrown in. Who the devil cares? I told myself. Spare yourself the trouble of carting them to work. Another bag of paper is not going to change the face of Maghtab. I wouldn’t have allowed myself to stifle that thought some years ago. This is a recent phenomenon. I almost felt indecent chucking those papers out with the rest of the garbage. My ideals are not what they used to be.

Why didn’t someone tell me back then, when I sat on every other committee that sprouted in Malta, that it would have been more profitable to spend my time on some other worthwhile cause? One would have seen the immediate benefits. Why aren’t we born knowing these things? Why do we have to find out for ourselves what is worthwhile and what isn’t and then when it is too late?

I picked up a newspaper cutting, yellowing with age. It was an irate letter written by a female lawyer, prominent in the early nineties and active in women’s groups at the time. In it she told me off for writing an article about some beaten up woman and ending it by saying that nothing was being done to pass the law of domestic violence through parliament. She quoted one of these women’s commission or committees of which she was then chairperson and stated that the law would be passing through Parliament imminently. I laughed a hollow laugh as I read this letter and scrunched it. I don’t like hollow laughs but find they’re becoming a regular part of my existance. The White Paper is still lying in some ministry. I nearly called her up to point this out to her; to tell her that the White Paper had now become yellow with age and inaction.

I looked at library and information papers which had been presented during expensive seminars and conferences in various parts of the world. Have things improved in this area? No, nothing has changed my colleagues abroad tell me. In some instances they had deteriorated. And now, even our own University Library is said to be suffering from a lack of funds. If that is happening here can you imagine what it’s like in Africa?

I found cuttings about festas and fireworks dating back to the 80’s; cuttings about buses and cars belching diesel fumes. Have things improved in either of these areas? Of course not. During the festa season we are still woken up by murtali on a Sunday morning and irritated by their shattering noise in the afternoon.

And wardens or not, buses and cars are still belching diesel fumes. I have as yet to see a warden stop a bus as it is disappearing in a haze of black smoke poisoning us all. Will European regulations change all this? Who knows? Probably not in my lifetime. I’ve lost hope. Another hollow laugh.

The same problems are discussed time and again. When I glance at a column, zap away on television, I get a feeling of déjà vu. There are few new problems. Most problems are old but have never been solved.

Of course in spite of the above, there’s a killjoy part of me which says that one should remain in the fray although I keep on telling myself that I don’t care anymore. I really try hard not to care; I wish I did not care. But the truth is that I do. What an attitude to be cursed with? Next time round I want to be a blonde with big bosoms who doesn’t give a fig for all these things.