A friend sent me some beautiful flowers for my birthday, accompanied by a card and a cutting from an Italian magazine with my horoscope for the year. ‘Go for it,’ she encouraged. ‘This is your year.’ Please remove yourselves from the edges of your seats as so far it does not augur too well. After the excellent concert at the Mediterranean Conference Centre, the Saturday before last, I returned home and decided to have a mini supper as the first one had been eaten in a hurry, in order for me to get to the concert on time and to avoid the stress of having to park underneath Valletta and puff my way up the stairs on high heels. So, feeling I deserved a fry up, I indulged in chips, a couple of pork chops and a fried egg. All bad for the arteries but then, what isn’t? I have no ambition to live to a hundred eating boring food.

With an eye on the television I sat at the breakfast table, half thinking of a million things, when suddenly I was wheezing and could not swallow the rather too big piece of pork chop I had just put into my mouth, dipped into HP sauce. I gulped and hastily poured a glass of water, drinking half of it. But the wheezing went on and I realized that if I did not do something, and quickly, I would stop breathing altogether. I already had visions of me sprawled on the carpet, in my pink winceytte nightie and unmatched dressing gown, dead. As dead as the Dodo. That is how they were going to find me, possibly on the following day. For once I stopped answering emails, mobile phone messages and my landline someone in the family was bound to get suspicious. The only hope I had left was to go below to my sister’s and ask for help. They had come to the concert so I knew they were in. By now, panic had set in and I could just about breathe through my nose. It didn’t even occur to me to ask St Anthony for help. I was petrified and was already thinking that by the time I ran down those stairs I would collapse at their door and that would be that. What an ignominous way to go, I thought to myself. Like my mother before me, I was going to miss meeting my first grandchild and was even going to spoil this happy occasion for everyone. Determined that I was not going to spoil anything for anyone least of all my daughter and delicious on-in-law, I made one last effort to dislodge the intruder from my throat and oops…well, I’ve given you enough boring details and here I am still, waiting for my grandson to come and face the world. But that was a very close shave. I am writing this as a cautionary tale. Especially if you live alone even if it is only for a short while, then eat slowly and carefully. It is such a silly way to die. I have now learnt my lesson. Every piece of food is now cut into small pieces. Is this second childhood already?

Yes, the concert at the Mediterranean Conference Centre with our National Orchestra and a good dose of musicians from the Orchestra Sinfonica di Pesaro making an excellent contribution to the evening, played a charming Fuga by Paolino Vassallo followed by Brahms’ double concerto in A minor. Our own Carmine Lauri came out specially to play this with another excellent musician, Tim Hugh, on the ‘cello.

But I was really there to listen to Tchaikovsky’s Pathétique composed in the last year of his life. Given to dark emotions did he commit suicide to escape the rumours about his homosexuality, which he had spent his life trying to conceal? “Tchaikovsky poured his emotions into traditional structures in an edgy combination of Slavic passion and French stylistic flair, bolstered with ravishing melody and brilliant orchestration,” someone wrote of his compositions. This symphony in a minor key, with our own orchestra together with the Italian musicians conducted by Paolo Ponziano Ciardi, was dubbed by Tchaikovsky’s brother Modeste as the Pathétique, in the sense of pathos of course and not pathetic. He is said to have wept a great deal while he was composing it admitting that he had poured his heart into it.

With all the talk of the Russian mafia and Russian girls out to seduce, one tends to forget what a rich culture the Russians have, a culture which we have been enjoying for years. Thchaikovsky is such a wonderful composer and apart from his natural gift, the tensions in his own life must have contributed a great deal to his music, as tension often does. Maybe, had he lived today, when we understand homosexuality better and accept it completely (as long as they don’t harp on about adopting children) – yes, maybe he would not have given us such beautiful moving music. Or, maybe, he would have given us more and better music, if that were possible. But we shall never know.

He had to constantly hide his homosexuality and therefore, as homosexuals sometimes do, even today, seized upon matrimony perhaps believing it would ‘cure’ his homosexuality. But at the celebratory breakfast, he nearly fainted when told to kiss his bride and on the wedding night ran off and tried to drown himself. They never lived together though, sadly, she blackmailed him.

Habitués noticed that Marcelline Agius, the orchestra leader and able violinist, has had a complete change of image. She has lost weight and now has a much more modern hairstyle and looks infinitely more glamorous.

My sister afterwards told me she prefers our own conductors, Michael Laus and Alan Chircop to Ciardi. I can’t say I know anything about conducting but one thing is certain: like most Italians Ciardi has an innate elegance and style which you cannot help but notice. Everything helps when you are on the stage.

Carmine Lauri and Tim Hugh were presented with bouquets. I still find it odd for men to receive a bunch of flowers.

After the show, there was Miriam Gauci, just back from the Liceo in Barcelona where she sang Manon Lescaut – “Fra le tue braccia, amore…”. We shall be able to enjoy her in concert on 3 March at the Malta Hilton. Friendly and warm, she has also been blessed with an engaging personality as well as a beautiful voice, not to mention a supporting husband.

I must recommend, without hesitation the Indian restaurant, Shiva’s at Dragonara Road, almost opposite the arched entrance of the Dragonara Palace. It has now been taken over by the enterprising David Grima of Bristow Potteries. I went there for lunch yesterday with other members of the media. Georges Meekers, whose attractive and informative book on Maltese wines has just been published, had taken care of the wine selection, never an easy task when marrying the strong flavours of curry with wine. “Indian cuisine has many complex ingredients, so it is difficult to identify one key flavour,” he says. However, he gave us a selection of Delicata wines which matched the food very well. I enjoyed the main courses especially: A Malabar Beef Curry, a Kalimiri Lamb, a Murg Maskawala or Butter Chicken, a marinated barbequed aubergines with an excellent sauce and an exquisite Biryani, which I have attempted to make several times but never as successfully.

This is a small, intimate restaurant decorated with Bristow Potteries ware. The food is authentic and prepared and served mainly by Indians. I’ve eaten a great deal of Indian food in my life as I love it. The food at Shiva’s is no imitation. Give yourselves a break and pay it a visit. If they feed you as well as they did us, then you’re on to a winner. I have no idea what the prices are like but I found a willingness to please us which is not so common here but which makes a dining a happy experience and if you like exotic food, you will enjoy Shiva’s.

On the way there, inspite of the benevolent horoscope sent to me by my friend, someone behind me who was not concentrating, crashed into me and, in turn, although I was at a fair distance, I crashed into the car in front. What a waste of time, this was. Both the cars, heavy duty ones, between which I was sandwiched, are unscathed. Mine is not, being of a rather more fragile nature. But all the going here and there for forms etc. has fallen on me and I need it not. I have enough to do. Of course this is far better than being dead, or maimed for the rest of my life, but it would have been better still had it not happened at all and wasted so much of my time.

So, although I try to follow RMF’s Motorist’s Handbook I shall have to try harder next time. Had I left a greater distance between me and the car in front I would not have landed on his behind. And had the chap behind been concentrating, he would not have crashed into me. Another cautionary tale.