Last week I had the “pleasure” of going to the Social Services Department and got to eavesdrop on a conversation about irregular immigrants while in the waiting room... the talk between the 60-odd year olds was truly an eye-opener.

But first, a bit more about social services. To be frank, I was just there to keep someone company while she collected forms and enquired about a pension. Walking into the department is pretty bad – it’s a bit like walking into a mental asylum really – bleak walls, peeling paint and that horrible magnolia plastic emulsion paint that is enough to give anyone a sense of foreboding.

Once you get through the corridor it’s not that bad really – the air-conditioning is adequate, the waiting room is small but reasonable pleasant (although completely lacking in reading material), and the area where your queries are seen to (or the buck is passed) is quite nice.

So... you get to the waiting room and one of two “security guards” sees to you. You are given a yellow, white or pink ticket with a number on. One of these so-called guards is a fat, rude fellow while the other, God bless him, has a mental impairment. He can hardly talk and it is his job to give out the tickets and call people in by number and colour.

We waited... and waited... and waited... one of the energy saving bulbs actually fizzed out – leaving only four bulbs working out of 12... the minutes dragged by like hours so I decided to listen in. These four women, one of who brazenly asked the others who I was, why I was there and what number and colour ticket I had. They didn’t even look at me and told her ‘lest dak’. In the meantime, an auld fellow who was hard of hearing, was constantly asking them if his number was being called – he couldn’t hear much... much less understand the fellow with the disability. The women remarked that it was right that this poor man be given the opportunity to do something if he could communicate, but he was definitely not in the right place – especially, in their view, because the service offered is terrible.

I must say, I cannot comment on the service on offer because I have never really needed to use it. But these women tore the system apart and their complaints were mostly down to being passed from person to person, office to office and still ending up without what they came for in the first place three months ago.

And then it happened. We heard a loud “What you want?”.... “Eh? What you NEED?”... “Eh... over der mela... OVER DER.”

It was the rude fat guy. Two immigrants, nicely dressed, came in. I haven’t a clue what they wanted really, but no sooner had they sat down that the guns were cocked, the volley presented and shots unleashed. The four women began with the usual tirade. “You find them everywhere. There are too many of them. We cannot cope and we cannot feed them. They don’t integrate. I don’t like them... no me neither... they are not the same...” and so it went on as they vented, in Maltese, in full view of myself and these two immigrant fellows for about five minutes. Even if the guys didn’t know what they were on about, they surely got an inkling.

Then something strange happened. “I don’t mind if they work and pay their dues,” one said. “Yes, yes, they are much harder workers than the Maltese. Look at the rubbish trucks, they are much quicker and cleaner when the Africans make up the team,” another said. “Yes, and they work harder in other jobs too. One guy that cleans the street cleans my doorstep and he wishes me good morning every time,” said the other.

The meanest battleaxe of the lot came up with the coup de grace: “These two are really clean and the smaller one is a good looking boy (gustuz hafna).” This final comment was greeted by giggles from the four of them while I picked my jaw up off the floor. Five minutes earlier they were after their blood, now they were saying how clean and what good workers they are. Words failed me. In the meantime, the poor fellow with the disability came in and tried to tell the deaf auld man that it was his turn, but they got lost in translation and the women sorted it. The fat rude guy came in to tell the immigrant to “GO DER!”, which the women translated and sorted. I waited and waited and waited and the person I was with was finished... she was told to pick up another form, from another person, from another place and then go back... for the third time...