I returned from Malta yesterday morning. I’m trying to get everything down as it’s still fresh in my mind, so I apologise if the following post is a little jumbled.

I bought a notebook (as if I need excuse to buy more stationery) before I went away to Malta. I wanted to journal my experience down to paper as it happened rather than trying to remember afterwards. Plus I thought it’d be nice to look back on. It’s always the little things you forget. That notion lasted less than twenty-four hours. I did try, honestly. But the first night of the holiday didn’t go to plan. In fact the flight over was a little annoying because we were sat on the same row as an uncompromisable three year old… I could handle the screaming (it’s nothing a bit of mp3 playing can’t fix) but it was mainly the parents, threatening to smack the boy if he didn’t shut up. No wonder he was crying!

Then there was the plane food, I really wish I took a photo of it. In fact my “journaling” covered the flight experience, so I very much remember the plane food (not that I could forget it if I’m honest). I remember Paul getting up and going to the bathroom, coming back and saying he could smell something beefy. A few minutes later, they were dishing out the food. We were presented with rice, green beans… and cat food. Actually, Paul said it looked like something a cat ate and then sicked up, but meh, what’s the difference? Paul didn’t touch the stuff, but me being daring person I am, shovelled some on to my fork and took a bite or two. It didn’t taste that bad (I didn’t throw up) and the texture was pretty rank (mashed, hairy stuff and brown, very brown) but it did smell of beef. So at least they got the smell right (unless it was supposed to be chicken or something, oh god what did I eat?).

Bad plane food and scary parents aside, the flight wasn’t too bad. We landed in Malta with no problem and even managed to get a taxi to the hotel. The first thing the taxi driver said when we got in to his car was “the seat belts don’t work”. Great… thanks for mentioning that after we started driving… His foot was hard down on the accelerator throughout the entire drive and I think at one point we even reached 30mph. At times, we were even driving on the wrong side of the road, just for the hell of it I think. And there was the time he even stopped for someone to cross the road, but they were too slow so he just drove across before they could get started and said “ahh, too slow”.

So we survived the crazy taxi driver and made it to the hotel in one piece, actually it was more like one and a half pieces; my face was swelling fast. Even though I booked the holiday, Paul paid for it on his card so it turned out everything was in his name. Yay for ten minutes wasted there trying to figure out why there was no room booked under the name of Casebere. We were given a delicious drink of Cranberry juice and Champagne while we waited though so it wasn’t so bad. And our suitcases were brought up whilst we went up ahead to our eighth floor room. The room was a good size and the view from the balcony was a nice touch. Paul and I spent nearly every evening out there with a drink and just watched the crazy driving down below.

We spent the rest of the first evening walking around the town and bay seeing what was about, checking out the food places for future reference and just enjoying the fact we had absolutely nothing to do. Much later, when we decided to call it a night, I couldn’t. I was tired, I wanted to sleep, I did, really. But I couldn’t. No matter which way I put my head, my neck was getting in the way. In fact it wasn’t even a neck anymore, I was just a head on a torso. I resembled Homer Simpson just not so yellow. It was getting more difficult to breathe and in the end, I had to “sleep” on the chair in the room, as I couldn’t lie down without hurting. The room was dark, I didn’t want to wake Paul (although I think I did lots of times he was just too nice to say anything) and there I was sat in a chair, blanket around me, panicking. What if my face swelled up so much my head exploded? Honestly, I thought I was going to die. The inside of my throat closed up as it was so swollen and I had to breathe through my nose. There were moments when I did drift off to sleep, but when that happened I stopped breathing through my nose and because my throat had closed up, I stopped breathing altogether and then woke up because I couldn’t breathe. It was a vicious circle.

In the end, I’d had enough. I pulled on some clothes, crept outside the room, and headed downstairs to the twenty-four hour reception. I glimpsed a look of myself in the mirror lift and I looked so fucking scary, I didn’t even recognise myself. The only thing that resembled me was my eyes and they looked tiny. After speaking with the people at reception, they called the 24-hour doctor for me and I spoke to him on the phone (although I think he was sleeping when I called, so I don’t think he really was a 24-hour doctor, oops). I say I spoke to him, but I really squeaked at him, I couldn’t speak properly either. They receptionists were a little shocked the Doctor didn’t come out right there and then but I told them there was nothing he could do for me now and anyway, I’d probably need medicine and no pharmacy was open at 3am. With the promise of the Doctor visiting me at 8:30am the next morning, I headed back upstairs, stopped off at the ice machine on our floor, and filled a glass of ice for me to “drink” until the Doctor arrived.

I didn’t sleep at all after that. I watched each agonising minute go past on the clock in the room until 8:30am arrived. When it did, so did the Doctor. He took my temperature (normal), felt my neck and immediately declared I needed to be admitted to hospital straight away. So I did. I had a blood sample taken at the hospital and was injected with something to ease the swelling. After about thirty minutes, it was taking effect as I could sort of breathe through my mouth again. Afterwards I was put on fluids and antibiotics via an IV drip. Great. When could I leave? Oh, wait, what was that? I couldn’t? I had to stay in, possibly until Monday. It was only early Saturday morning, I’m on holiday, I can’t be stuck in hospital. But I was.

I was taken upstairs to a sea view room (private), with TV, internet, bathroom and shower, a menu of food to choose from and my very own buzzer to call in the nurses in the hallway (which I didn’t abuse… much). Why exactly did I book a 5* hotel in the first place? Ok so I wasn’t in some crappy NHS hospital in the UK, but I was still in hospital. The staff were lovely, coming in to ask if I needed anything at least five times a day, changing my drip, bringing in my breakfast, lunch and dinner, heck I’d never eaten so well and the food was delicious. It was a good experience despite the reason for actually being there. Paul stayed with me for the entire day, even going out and bringing back some water and chocolate (naughty!!) and most of the evening. He could have stayed with me overnight at the hospital but he doesn’t like them, so he went back to the hotel in the evening.

I even slept that night despite being woken up at various times so the nurses could change my drip. Sunday morning came around and so did Paul. I felt better. I was itching to get out of the hospital. It was a nice place but I didn’t come on holiday to spend time in hospital. I convinced the Doctor I was ok (which I was, I was still a bit swollen but I could breathe and it didn’t hurt anymore unless I pressed really hard on my neck), so at around 4pm, they discharged me. With the promise of coming back the following day and having another IV course of antibiotics and taking a course of antibiotics in tablet form (which I’m still on btw…). I got to leave and enjoy the remainder of my holiday. I just couldn’t drink any alcohol. This is fine. I’m not much of a drinker anyway, but I was looking forward to having a cocktail or two… or another pint of Cisk… or some Whiskey… and sitting on our balcony with a bottle of wine or two… but what’s a drop of alcohol when you have your health?

We walked back to the hotel, it was only about a fifteen-minute walk away and I took it easy. I even think we went into the spa pool on the second floor for an hour or two that evening which was nice as swimming and floating around in a hot spa pool was just what I needed.

The days that followed were spent looking for a beach, who knew that Malta was effectively just a lump of rock and that all shore lines where we staying were just rock also? But that didn’t matter in the end as sand is so over rated. Your towel gets full of sand and so does your hair, and your swimming costume… and getting sand down there isn’t a pleasant experience either. So it worked out pretty well. I even ventured into the gym and exercised for an hour during my stay (and so did Paul who I think enjoyed it but won’t admit it).

One afternoon we ventured off land and went on the harbour cruise, which was a nice excursion, despite being ruined by some French people; but that’s a story for another time. In all we took over 500 photos and I narrowed it down to about 350 and have already put them up in the photo gallery. We did a lot of walking. There were frequent busses close by to utilise but we didn’t. Would you want to travel the way those people drive? And the doors on the busses don’t even close, they drive with them wide open, really fast and crazily. Enough said really.

Overall, the hotel was really good, good service, nice views, beautiful spa (which we used every evening), the Maltese are friendly people, very welcoming but I don’t know if I’d visit St Julian’s again. I loved all the old buildings, the stone colour, the design, everything. They were beautiful. But for stuff to do? It was a little bit slow. I did have a great time and it was good to spend time away from work and from London and see some different faces and places.

So that was pretty much my week, how was yours?

Thanks for sticking with me if you’ve made it this far. If you want a shorter version of our holiday experience, take a look at Paul’s Malta review. Men.