As someone who has lived for over 30 years in the UK, I regret to say that Daphne Caruana Galizia “Opinion” is obviously coloured by some unfortunate experience, which is still troubling her.

I emigrated to the UK in 1962, and bought my first property immediately after. I recall the very generous reception we received from all our neighbours. At the time all our neighbours were white Londoners, predominantly from Ealing and Hounslow. The lady opposite came to introduce herself carrying a tray with a pot of tea, sandwiches and biscuits, and some light bulbs, because she knew that the previous owner had taken everything.

We were always invited to all the weekend house parties, which in the 1960s were a way of life, and treated very much as equals, so long as we arrived with our booze and the latest Tom Jones and Engelbert Humperdinck records.

When we needed to lay a new drive, I enquired how much ready mixed concrete I should order and was told that I would need eight cubic yards. When it arrived, I literally panicked because I knew I was not going to cope with it all by myself.

I need not have worried. A neighbour two doors away was the first to arrive with his wheelbarrow and shovel, and wearing his wellies of course. He was a director at British Steel. Next to arrive was my next door neighbour, who happened to be an estate agent employed by a national brewery to manage their property. I do not remember exactly how many people actually turned up to give a hand, but I assure Daphne that I had more people than I actually needed. I remember one of them telling my wife to clear off and go and put the kettle on. Would Daphne have received the same help from her Bidnija neighbours?

As for myself, I was promoted to Quality Manager of an aerospace factory, a position from which I retired.

Our son, who is married to an English Psychologist, also has a law degree, and until very recently managing director of a City Bank. He now works freelance for Thompson Morgan, as well as doing other private work, mainly for shipping lines.

Our daughter, who incidentally is every bit as dark skinned as Daphne, as indeed I am too, was a human resources manager with British Airways. She now runs her own consultancy, and is married to an English financial adviser in the City. She is also a member of her local Rotary Club (Kingston – Surrey-upon-Thames).

I am saying all this, because while I sympathise with

Daphne, and realise the hurt she must have suffered, I do not think that she ought to go through life carrying a mega chip on her shoulder.

I too had a little experience when I moved house, to an area that at the time was all native English. My next door neighbour who, bless him, was a very energetic 80-year-old, was quite alarmed that we were going to be next door neighbours.

After a very short time we became the best of friends and whenever he saw either me or my wife he would invite us over for a glass of sherry.

Later on when he needed help, it was me who was entrusted with his house key. I used to bring in the coal from the bunker and light a fire before they came down for breakfast.

Getting back to Daphne and her opinion of Enoch Powell, I have to say that Daphne is probably too young to remember what a visionary he was. He was proved right when he predicted that whole areas like Southall, Bradford, Slough, High Wycombe, Leicester and many other places would become ghettoes from which the indigenous population would be ousted.

It all came to pass. Daphne chose to skip over the recent attacks on innocent people in London by so-called refugees who I believe have been planted there by al-Qaeda to act as fifth columnists

I always had a lot of respect for Daphne’s journalistic prowess, but of late she is coming across as a few raisons short of a fruitcake. She has lost her objectivity and balance and now relies solely on her grossly distorted and eccentric views, which she tries to impose on others.

Victor Spiteri

ATTARD