I don’t want to let another Sunday pass without mentioning the pre-dinner concert recently organised by the Lions to celebrate their 50 years. This concert is a recent favourite in which soprano Miriam Cauchi, accompanied on the piano by Rosetta de Battista, starred. What I cannot understand is this. I go to a great many concerts, here, there and everywhere. But this concert to me was an ear-opener. How is it that Miriam who is such a talented singer so rarely features in a concert? She deserves to be heard much more often. The concert, followed by a Gala Dinner was held at the Magazzino on Valletta’s Waterfront. The format of the programme was familiar. A couple of technically demanding arias, a piece by a local composer and a couple of less well-known pieces and then a very popular, well-known piece. On this occasion Miriam, who did the large part of her training in Bulgaria, sang some wonderful Dvorák gipsy songs. Ms Cauchi is effortlessly, insouciantly superior to a number of both local and foreign sopranos I have heard over the years.

Most composers put their failures in the bottom drawer while, it is said that Sibelius put his masterpieces there. Why are we putting such a good soprano as the unassuming Miriam Cauchi in our bottom drawer?

It was obvious that the audience loved her singing which apart from the gypsy songs also included Puccini’s O mio babbino caro, so well-known but far from easy to sing as well as a piece written by our own Joseph Vella – Wahdi and other arias from La Rondine, Adriana Lecouvreur and Lucia di Lammermoor. And for the over sentimental, like myself, Leoncavallo’s Mattinata, which I never find tiring and repetitive, even if I hear it a thousand-and-one times. So, let’s hear more of Miriam Cauchi please for she is a jewel in our crown which doesn’t have all that many jewels after all.

It was an elegant evening, too. Nobody put it better than Mark Twain. “Clothes make the man”, said the Mississippi sage. Sir Winston Churchill once wrote that “naked people have little or no influence in society”. There was no question of “casual” dress that evening. Men wore black tie and women turned up looking very spruced up. Is this the most casual of times, where some display not only their belly buttons but also their huge bellies and varicose veins as if it were normal? It was pleasant to see a little more grace and elegance than usual. I am certainly not looking forward to a summer where men wear those hideous sleeveless T-shirts and in their turn, trying to outdo the girls, by displaying their tattoos. People wearing this sort of apparel would manage to lower the tone of even the most chic of places. Thank goodness that evening, there was no evidence of yobbo culture at Il Maggazzino, a culture, which has taken over everywhere, it seems.

I come across many amusing episodes in this line of work. At a party recently I joined a group of assorted hacks and hackettes who were all laughing uproariously. Ever the inquisitive diarist I asked to be let in on the joke. One young man told me about an incident which occurred when they were at a lunch kindly hosted by a foreign diplomat. Most of the journalists and media people were eating and chatting away merrily, with one exception – a woman who kept glowering at fellow guests and pursing her lips while the others talked about every subject under the sun. Then out of the blue and for no apparent reason, the morose one let loose a string of insults at one of the unsuspecting hacks, calling him fat and short and all kinds of names. The hack who was telling me the story says that they were in fits as the source of these insults was not exactly svelte herself, and anyway, one simply does not attack people in this way. It is considered bad form as given a choice we would all choose to be lovelier. Anyway, the talk at the bar later was all about how ridiculously petty and rude some people are. Why wasn’t I there I keep on asking myself? It is true that if I am editing the magazine I don’t even bother to open the mail. Perhaps this is the time when I missed this particularly amusing occasion although none of us like the idea of one hack being nasty to another, in public especially. I feel we are a tribe and should stick together whenever possible. Certainly, the incident must have been quite something as it has also been doing the round of e-mails for some time now.

It’s really the little things that betray the true nature of people and give an insight on their personality. I was reminded about this when I met a friend recently. She told me she had been invited to dinner by a couple she knew slightly. My friend turned up and found the house was lovely. Inside there were colourful paintings by contemporary artists hung on the walls of the open plan dining and sitting room. The guests sat on the jewel coloured sofas making conversation while waiting for dinner to be served. As they chatted, my friend got the impression that something was slightly wrong. It was nothing that she could put her finger on but there were some negative vibes in the air. To quote her: “I looked across at the kitchen where bright Moroccan tiles contrasted with the stainless steel fridge; at the matt green door with its decoupage fish decorations and into the dining room and I kept on sensing that there was something slightly off kilter.” When everybody sat around the table, my friend kept on wondering what it was. A fellow guest commented on a pretty hand-painted chest with a floral design which was situated next to a large mahogany cupboard with bronze inlay, and suddenly my friend realised what was wrong. In a house chockfull of beautiful decorations, paintings and what not, she couldn’t see a single photo of the couple together. “Not a single shot of them. No wedding photos, no holiday shots, nothing,” she commented. “In true Maltese style my flat is full of picture frames, perhaps too many, it is true. But maybe it is because of this that I found it odd.” I have lived longer than her so I remarked that no, I did not really find it odd. So many couples put on a semblance of togetherness and unity but when you dig deeper it was all a façade. Sad alas, but only too true. Perhaps there are as many empty shell marriages as there are happy ones. As to why this particular couple did not keep up the charade by leaving at least a couple of “togetherness” photographs around, I cannot tell and frankly I don’t care either.

Karen Mifsud, ever effervescent, called me to invite me to go to Palio’s as it has a new menu, new décor and goodness knows what else and they wanted the press to come and discover it. I protested and said it was impossible. I simply had far too much to do and was on my perpetual diet anyway. But of course Karen knows my weaknesses. “Marie, there’s Tarte Tatin on the menu. When did you have it last?” My spineless self gave in to Tarte Tatin as Karen knew I would.

Palio’s at Westin Dragonara has really been given a good old makeover and botoxed up to the hilt. It looks very fresh and tempting. The occasion was a sampling of the menu with some divine dishes on it. There was an appreciation of the glories of the table all round. We were well, not quite tearing, but almost, into the excellent dishes, which were made with care by the kitchen team headed by Chef Ruben Miceli. It was a lively evening and at one point Karl Schembri told me off because I said I was not sure that I could get to Dingli on my own: “For goodness sake, Francis Ebejer lived there!” the young author informed me. Ah! Yes. I read his books, his English ones that is, but had never paid him a visit. His pretty new girlfriend smiled benignly.

When we had eaten well, had had too much wine perhaps and just a few of us stayed on to talk a little more and regain our composure, the manager brought in a glorious looking Tarte Tatin, especially for me. Or so I was told… but it was. It had to be eaten straight away as it was warm, with a glorious blob of ice cream on top.

I hardly dare say it but it was almost as good as that of my mother-in-law’s who made it extremely well. I shall go again to Palio’s for the special ravioli, meat, fish, pizza, pasta, chocolate cake but most of all for their Tarte Tatin. I cannot think of another restaurant where it can be found on the menu. Not here anyway.

Well friends, readers and acquaintances keep on sending me bits and pieces retrieved from blogs. Take a look at this one:

‘jenny Monday, 19 May 1519hrs’

Did anyone read La Benoit’s column, her last paragraph? She is amazing. According to her, Alfred Sant’s speech in parliament was “excellent”. Come on Marie you must be joking, just get over it, Alfred Sant is not Prime Minister material. The people have spoken. His political career should be over so get a life. Sit in a corner with a box of chocolates to comfort yourself and think about the next five years. Labour was so close and yet so far!

Let me assure Jenny that I have got over it and that yes, Alfred Sant’s speech in Parliament was excellent. But shall I tell you something Jenny? In the present climate I am almost happy that Labour did not win this election although the others won through all kinds of disgusting and unacceptable tactics as we all know. We are busy watching your Party govern. How are they going to deal with all these problems I wonder? And while we are at it, Hey! Where are the promised light bulbs?

And did we guffaw at this one from Corinne Vella, DCG’s pretty sister. It was sent to me at least five times: She wrote on some blog or another to a fellow blogger whose nom-de-plume is Uncle Fester: ‘Uncle Fester: It is not an obsession. Alfred Sant is still in parliament trying to stoke the embers of revolution. As long as that sort of thing still happens, the past is the present and, horribly, also the future.’

I mean, if that isn’t paranoia what is… Perhaps Corinne too, should take some time off and sit and contemplate Mount Etna. It might give her a different perspective of life… for goodness sake. May I play Marie Antoinette Corinne please?