If he were still alive, Salvu Borg tas-City of London Bar would have turned 100 years old today. And he would have certainly not liked to have politicians turning up to visit him, much less this article by one of his 24 grandchildren being published in a newspaper.

Because Nannu Salvu liked to keep a low profile, and I am sure I would have been severely reprimanded, albeit with a smile, for daring to tell the whole of Malta that a century has passed since his birth.

All those who remember him standing behind the bar, pouring wine or whisky, know what I am saying. Salvu was a man of very few words, but when he spoke, everyone listened. He must have heard many a story from his customers, and must have heard many of their woes, and he always had a kind word for every circumstance.

Perhaps I should have learnt more from him, especially when it came to his generous ways. It used to happen often that a group of us cousins turned up at the bar after having a swim at the San Giljan waterpolo pitch, and not only would he give us an ice-cream – much to our parents’ chagrin because an ice-cream before lunch was unheard of – but he would close the bar and drive us home, six or seven of us packed in his light blue old Anglia as it struggled up Birkirkara Hill, in those years still open for two-way traffic.

He would, then, of course arrive late for lunch, with the more outspoken nanna – God bless her soul too – demanding to know the cause of his delay and complaining that she would have to warm up his food. And there were no microwave ovens then. But her remonstrations just made him smile as he tucked away before going for his siesta.

Taciturn as he was, it was always a pleasure to listen to him every time he felt like talking. And his stories of the Second World War – he lived through the First too, but he could not recall much of that – were always fascinating. He was injured on the first Saturday of the war, and made a vow never to eat meat on every Saturday if he survived, a promise he kept for well over 50 years.

All the family used to turn up at his house every 6 August for a party, but he always ended up being the least celebrated – because there was always a new grandchild and, later, great-grandchild to make fuss of, as the family grew. But he did not mind and, after making sure that each and every one of us had a drink and was munching pastizzi, almost shied away from cutting the cake as we all sang Happy Birthday. He was like that.

When I was born he was already reaching pensionable age, having spent most of his time at the bar, which his own father had opened in 1914. And one distinct memory I have of him is when I told him, aged 19, that I was going to start working at The Times. I remember him telling me “Wouldn’t a job with the government be better?” A clash of mentalities – the old and the new – but I knew what he meant.

I was sure that what he said was prompted by his concern for my future, and I was sure then as I am sure now that he was silently pleased with my decision.

He would have been equally glad to see me being appointed editor of this newspaper many years later, but alas he did not live long enough, passing away on 24 March 1996, a day I will never forget.

He will always remain in my memory as a nannu that each and every child should be lucky to have.

Surely, I was lucky to have him.