It's amazing how many people in this country seem to genuinely believe that the flow of traffic is somehow directly proportional to the loudness of their car's horn.

Never mind the cause of the traffic jam itself: be it rush hour, a shortage of gas or petrol, a minor or major accident, a road blocked by cranes and concrete mixers, the laying of pre-electoral drainpipes, or an unlikely combination of all of the above, the general reaction is virtually guaranteed to be the same. A few minutes' silence, broken suddenly by a single, peremptory blast on an individual horn... then, a spontaneous fanfare of hysterical, high-pitched hooting, of blaring trumpets and ear-splitting claxons, all vying with each other to enter the Guinness Book of Records with the longest and loudest note, and to sustain it for as long as the traffic flow remains static. (Which, depending on what form of industrial action was ordered by the General Worker's Union that particular week, can last anything up to 40 days and 40 nights...)

***

In fact, had Albert Einstein devoted his life to the study of Maltese traffic (instead of wasting all his talents on such obscure trivialities as “relativity” and the speed of light), I imagine he would have come up with a simple mathematical equation to explain the phenomenon. “Kph = d² x ($#@%&)”... in which “Kph” refers to he speed of traffic flow, “d²” is the square of the combined decibels produced when approximately 300 cars sound their horns simultaneously, and “($#@%&)” refers loosely to the loudness, aggression, profanity and degree of inventiveness of the accompanying blasphemy... which, needless to add, is the only “constant” in the equation.

***

Anyhow... as you can imagine, I spent much of the past two or three weeks stuck in endless traffic jams, with nothing but a cacophony of pointless hooting for company.

Perhaps I'm just unlucky, or perhaps it is some kind of punishment for a nameless crime committed in a former life... but whatever it is, my daily driving itinerary invariably takes me either through or around Sliema: a town which must have displeased the God of Traffic at some point in its history, seeing as it has quite clearly been condemned to an eternity of congestion.

Well, one day last week I found myself at a standstill somewhere along the Sliema seafront, heading in the direction of Gzira, when the whole horn chorus broke out as usual. This time, however, even the most die-hard hooter gave up eventually. As minutes lengthened and became half-an-hour, and then three-quarters-of-an-hour, it grew increasingly apparent that this wasn't just your ordinary traffic jam (in fact, I later learnt that it was actually the queue for the petrol station after the threat of an imminent strike.)

One by one, ignitions were switched off, and with the exception of the distant horns of cars still joining the jam a kilometre or so further back, all grew quiet and still. Some people even got out of their vehicles and agitated here and there like a scene straight out of the REM video, Everybody Hurts... only with slightly different lyrics. We were, in brief, truly grounded to a halt.

***

It was roughly then that I became aware of a car parked on the other side of the dual carriageway. From where I sat, I could see that it was parked squarely on a double yellow line... just underneath a sign saying “Tow Zone” in large, black letters, and accompanied by the appropriate icon. (If I remember right, a closed fist, complete with middle finger protruding skywards.)

It seems the driver of this car had made it his mission in life to simultaneously contravene as many aspects of the Highway Code as possible. For, apart from the yellow lines and Tow Zone sign, it was also parked on a street corner, and both wheels on the right side were up on the kerb. Besides, whoever was responsible for the parking had clearly failed to finish the job: the car had been left at a decidedly improbable angle, so that the rear mudguard jutted deeply into the pavement, while the front edged dangerously out into the road.

Needless to add, it was a perfectly ordinary example of Sliema parking at peak shopping-time... nothing to write home about by any stretch of the imagination... and in fact, I wouldn't have given it a second glance, were it not for two small details.

One, I was stuck in the aforementioned traffic, and so had nothing better to do. Two, prowling approximately 14 cars further down the road, I could plainly see a traffic warden approaching.

***

A quick digression on the subject of traffic wardens. Whatever your opinion of these unique creatures, you must admit that we as a nation have, Oh! so much for which to be grateful to them. For one thing, consider how admirably they have so far lived up to their name. Think about it: why else would they be called “traffic wardens”, if not for the incredible way they always somehow manage to create more traffic than there was before they actually turned up on the scene? And besides... what ever would the unwary motorist do without the presence of at least one traffic warden to alert him to possible dangers? Example: almost every day I drive past the mouth of Rudolph Street at the top of Savoy Hill. Well, thank God there is always a traffic warden stationed there, whose job it is to stand by the roundabout with his arm pointing towards Mrabat Street. Otherwise, how on earth would I possibly notice that the street behind him has been rendered impassable by an avalanche of cranes, bulldozers and pneumatic drills... not to mention piles of debris, a gaping trench dug clean across from one side to the other... and, last but not least, a great big sign with the words “NO ACCESS - ROAD CLOSED” in giant, fluorescent letters?

***

But back to the Gzira seafront and its traffic warden. By this time, he (for yes, it was a male of the species) was plainly aware of the offending vehicle. I could tell this chiefly by the subtle quickening of his pace – for, like a true predator, the experienced traffic warden will spend much of his day as inactive as possible... conserving his energy for that final sprint, when he knows he must pounce on his victim as quickly as possible, lest the owner gets there first and drives off before the kill can be made.

On this occasion, however, there seemed to be no owner in sight. Here. I thought, was a ticket almost certain to be issued... and I wondered which of the several contraventions would go down into his little book, and how much to fine would amount to.

I also found myself thinking... well, here's one little section of civil society that seems to be taking its responsibilities seriously. Never mind the endless groaning of unions, and the constant lamentations that “nothing works the way it should”, that the “country is screwed”, and all those snide references to Mickey Mouse and other Disney characters. Here was at least one man who had not succumbed to the virus of lackadaisical nonchalance that seems to have infected almost every aspect of public life. Here, too, was an example of civil discipline at its purest and most simple: you can run, but you can't park on a double yellow without paying the ultimate price.

Call me a sadist, but I couldn't help but also feel a tiny thrill of satisfaction at the foreknowledge that Justice was about to be done. The undisciplined and the unruly will be brought to book, and the Rule of Law will prevail in spite of everything. And who knows? If things keep on at this pace, maybe in a few years time the trend will catch on. Maybe justice will one day extend its wings, and envelop not just the double-yellow line parker or the obstructer of garages, but also the corrupt, the unscrupulous, the criminal and the depraved....

***

By now the warden was upon his prey. I waited with bated breath for him to punch in the buttons on that little machine at his abdomen, to process the dreaded ticket and insert it between windscreen and wiper...

But, to my horror and amazement, the warden did nothing of the kind. Instead, he reached into his pocket, fished out a set of car-keys, opened the driver's door and got in behind the wheel. Then he started the engine, and (without putting on his seatbelt, I couldn't help but observe), screeched off into the sunset... leaving nothing but a swirling cloud of black exhaust fumes to show that he had ever even existed.

And before I could mouth my natural (and unprintable) reaction, the fanfare of horns and claxons erupted once more all around me... engines crackled into life, and, slowly, ever so slowly, the line of cars lurched forward clumsily, like a herd of woolly mammoth marching headlong towards inevitable extinction.

***

The traffic jam, it seems, had ended more or less at the same time as that briefest of visions of Universal Justice. With, I suppose, one tiny difference: there will be another traffic jam tomorrow.

Happy Easter y'All...