The first time I met Godfrey Grima, the journalist who has, over the past three decades, undoubtedly lead the small, restricted band of Maltese scribblers who have had – and some still have – a close association with the international media, particularly that of the UK, was in the press area of the old House of Representatives in Valletta. We were covering the parliamentary proceedings for two rival Maltese language dailies. It had actually been my first real foray into that arena, having earlier had to ask passers-by, in what was then Kingsway, the way to the island’s highest institution. When one considers that kind of baptism of fire straight off my sixth-form bench, I understandably had neither the heart nor the gall to ask my News Editor for details as to where our erstwhile representatives met and toiled on our behalf. So entered the green young pauper of Maltese journalism into the abode of the elected princes.

Alas, finding the place and actually getting into the Tapestry Chamber at The Palace was not enough. There were procedures to follow, a confounding parliamentary jargon to decipher and deadlines to meet at a time when hand-held recorders and mobile phones were still a mere fancy from the best sci-fi magazines of those late 1960s.This somewhat overawed, panic-stricken lad of 18 was saved by Godfrey, his senior by a few odd years, who took him in, explained it all in his characteristic, highly cynical drawling tone and did the rest other than actually writing that first report.

It was the start of a professional relationship that had its ups and downs as both our careers gradually drifted into different, sometimes antagonistic journalistic environments. There were even those black moments when a certain feeling of distrust had crept in, only to happily fade away as life took its own blissful turns, young men became men and old scenarios fell off the stage to be replaced by newer, much fresher ones.

All this ran like an old super-8mm film through my mind the other day when Godfrey and I met in our neighbourhood’s newest supermarket. We both seem to have become experts at manoeuvring the shopping trolley. I wonder if that tells you something. The cost of operating a car is high, but it is not at all bad compared with the low mileage-per-lira when you are pushing a grocery cart.

What do two ageing journalists pushing loaded supermarket trolleys talk about in the middle of the frozen-food section of a store? The cost of living has risen lately, dear boy, but have you tasted the latest foreign cheap wine? Visit the frozen-food department and you’ll find everything is really frozen except the prices. Once upon a time when you felt the need to have a good cry, you went to the cinema; later, soap operas on TV did the trick; now it’s the supermarket.

No, Godfrey and I simply and almost automatically carried on with the debate we had started on television weeks before on the country’s economic crisis. What crisis? I insisted it was a crisis and he continued to maintain there were indeed problems but no crisis point has been reached. We talked and we argued, sometimes we surrendered corridor space to fellow shoppers giving us the odd look or two, as we instantly turned boring supermarket visits into something more worthwhile.

There is no crisis, at least not in the real sense of the word, my first mentor retorted, but we both acknowledged a typical visit to the supermarket begins with an empty shopping trolley and ends with an empty wallet. “Don’t consider it a gauge,” Godfrey advised me as I tried to look away in search of the wife who quite wisely had chosen to move on to other sections of the store while all this was taking place.

People cannot avoid supermarkets, I reiterated, they have to eat and drink. No crisis? See what the GRTU statistics for the Malta International Fair last month had to say, I continued to insist. Godfrey did not stall. The problems are there and they need to be tackled. Not that they are necessarily being tackled the way they should be.

People continued to whoosh past. Still, it was an amusing spectacle for those who bothered to even notice us. You can always recognise the newlyweds in a supermarket, for example. She’s the one who squeezes the can of soup to see if it’s fresh.

But all this public borrowing and the horrendously high national debt, I asked somewhat emphatically? A sniff of the herb-coated olives being served by white-capped gentlemen and ladies nearby added to the reality of the situation. But no point of crisis, Godfrey insisted, there are mechanics that can applied to the whole argument and there are European Union methods and modes to be consulted.

All I know, I said, is that a fool and his money are soon parted. The rest of us wait until we reach the supermarket. In fact, nowadays an optimist is any supermarket customer who holds out his hand for the change. It’s true, supermarkets are after all very convenient. They permit a shopper to go broke in just one store.

And so it went on, right in the middle of the new supermarket, for a longish time. A far cry from our first meeting many years ago, but possibly more entertaining. We discussed the economy. Crisis or no crisis. But we also found time in between the yoghurt and the vegetarian cheddar to talk about the ministerial status quo, the local political scene as it is developing, idle or not so idle time being spent in these early twilight days of ours and, oops, back to the economy, stupid.

Godfrey still needed to take the lift to the floor above where I had already been to. It’s where they keep the wines and spirits, favourite fare with journalists. So we finally bid each other goodbye, retraced our steps, gave the trolley a push back and forward, allowed a family of jolly trolleys to ramble past us towards the cashiers’ point of no return, and it was finally back to our shopping.

Now, where did I leave my wife… or did she leave me?