09.07 TA-ZIFIRIN

It is Maltese tradition that each lineage carries a nickname. On my paternal grandmother’s side, it is Zifirin, meaning “Matchstick.”

A reflection of her name, my Nanna Victoria had a fiery tongue and fierce sense of humour. I would ask her if she’d like anything from the town centre, and immobilized by a recent stroke as much as by her caretaking family members, she would reply, “A package of cigarettes,” with a smirk on her face.

This morning, on the very date of her ninety-fourth birthday, she passed away. I am heartbroken. In my naivety I said goodbye last week with the expectation that she would still be by the kitchen table, listening to mass on the radio on my next visit to Gozo.

Nanna Victoria was named for the national feast of Our Lady of Victory, also the patron of her hometown, celebrated each year on September 8th. This year, her feast day will pass while she awaits burial. The church, decorated for festival services is not available until Monday.

Fireworks will light the sky over Xaghra.
Candles will light her bedside tonight.
I bought a matchbox and lit one Zifirin for my Nanna.

09.06 ROBIN HOOD COUNTY

Everywhere I look I see him. In legend, he was a forest dwelling bandit, rarely in the public eye, as hard to point out in a crowd as Waldo himself. But today Nottingham boasts home to the philanthropic stealth, Robin Hood, with icons of the sixteenth century hero nearly everywhere.

While meandering Nottingham’s Castle and surrounding caves this afternoon, I noticed this carefully pruned shrub. Some might call it blasphemous, depicting Robin as burly, stunted and awkward in archer’s form. Its tasteless position is in contrast with the natural gardenscape surrounding the figure.

After an inward laugh, I managed to capture a photo knowing local onlookers were rolling there eyes at another typical tourist falling into Robin Hood’s target.

09.05 SWEATSHOP

Maintaining my Wednesday night social run routine, I met up with a group of Robin Hood Marathoners at the Sweatshop, the major retail sponsor of this year’s road race. The store manager, Martin, had invited me along earlier today while I was in the shop inquiring about retrieving my race package.

This evening we covered eight an a half hilly miles together, my legs still lagged from travelling and exploring the city by foot the past few days.

From the shop we headed through the rural outskirts of the city beginning along the Trent River Trail (where incidentally a dead body had been pulled just last night), and made our way through the residential neighbourhoods of Wilson and West Bridgeford. We also wove past the Notts County and Nottingham Forest Football Clubs where I thought Martin might pause in a moment of undue veneration.

In the end, I got in couple of good up-tempo miles before next week, a tour of one end of town and a motivating boost from an evening surrounded by another bunch of crazy runners. While I do miss my old friends at the RF, it was nice to find a common thread in Nottingham’s local band of distance runners. And if they Sweatshop continue to replenish us with wine gums at the end of each run, their shop will have recruited another regular on Wednesday nights.

09.04 EVERYTHING BUT THE BATHROOM SINK

A gaping hole in the tiled ground of my bathroom remained for nearly six months after I moved into my apartment in Hamilton about three years ago. There, a pipe was put in and a custom made stainless steel sink, in the approximate shape and size of a Payless shoebox, was eventually inserted. Because of its shape it never drained properly, leaving me to manually drive frothy globs of toothpaste and soap by flooding them toward the conduit.

Although improved from the previous bathroom sink, I am again fighting off plaque half heartedly at my new home in Nottingham. In traditional British fashion, the basin receives waterfall from two sources – a cold tap on the right and a scalding hot tap on the left hand side. The cold tap is leaky, to boot.

With my hands cupped under the tap to my right until I am barely inducing a Raynaud’s attack, I brace myself to neutralize the temperature by transferring my palms to the stream of hot water that burns on my skin.

I have always been reluctant to use a proper cup in the bathroom, where germs are afloat and can accumulate beyond my naked eye. Besides this, I hate the idea of backwashing toothpaste foam into something I will reuse. It is simply a personal distaste. And I am unwilling to resort to paper which is a waste.

If anybody knows me well, I am rather ceremonial about my dental routine.
I would rather endure the burden on my hands in order to avoid further interrupting this ritual.

In a year or so, when I relocate a priority will be to test run the old Oral-B in each bathroom instead of finding in working order everything but the bathroom sink.

09.03 PREMIER ROAD

It's no Harmony Drive but Premier Road is my new home. An old refurbished Victorian split level duplex is where I will find my place in the attic. I have the place to myself for a while before my housemates arrive. I don't look forward to sharing the span of my personal space which has grown to extend the length of a football field more recently, but I'll have not choice come October. In the meantime I wouldn't mind some company. The house echoes with my footsteps and I am thankful that carpeting has been added along most hallways to mute my heavy heels, which I might soon be clicking in ruby slippers once the culture shock takes effect. At the moment, and after a long day of travelling, There's no place like Premier Road.

09.02 LOW SPEED CHASE

It will be a while before I watch the sun go down on Gozo. It’s a low speed chase as we wheel around tight corners and circle ourselves at my dad's typical Sunday-driver pace looking for the road to the westward lookout in the Zebbug. I remember getting lost in these same streetways along the same mission a year ago. In the end we were just in time to watch the sky reflect a brilliant orange hue. I’m expecting overcast skies for the next little while. Might as well soak up one last little dose of Vitamin D.

09.01 THE GENE POOL

I share a lot in common with my Nannu Julian (besides our stunning looks). For one, he studied and eventually taught physical education, the root of kinesiology. I also suspect that my slow-twitch fibres come from his lineage since he has run more marathons than I know (and still exhibits superhuman stamina for an eighty year old today). We’ll see how far the gene pool stretched when I cover 26.2 miles in Nottingham next week.

The first piano I played was in his house. I can’t say that I am as talented as he, but the shared interest is there. He is even so inclined as to have written a number of musical scores for the local and national orchestras. I don’t write music, but besides this, Nannu Julian is also a poet and essayist. My work here is not even a close reflection of the quality of his writing but I’ve still got some time to practice and catch up.

And this is what I’ll be doing in Nottingham. Tonight, by chance, I learned that a younger (not-yet-Nannu) Julian himself lived and studied in Nottingham and Loughborough. Our interests are paralleled our accomplishments not so in line. I have a lot of catching up to do. But at least I have somebody to (figuratively – and you thought I was short!) look up to.