One of the things I realised during the COVID-lockdown introspection period was that I had been reading fewer books. The time I used to spend propped up with a book on the sofa in the evenings was replaced by my being propped up on the sofa with the phone in hand, never-endingly scrolling and swiping and switching from one app to the next. Whereas before I would read a book a week, I realised that I was barely managing to finish a book a season.
I had to admit to myself that my phone had become an extension of my hand, scratch that, of myself. It’s the ultimate gadget to go about life: I was using it to read the news (I don’t watch TV news bulletins, news comes to me in tweet notifications); I was using it to cook (following The Guardian’s Ottolenghi online recipes or the Green Kitchen Stories app); I was using it to check the time, as an alarm clock, as a radio, as my mini-computer and so on and so forth.
At the end of the week, notifications would pop up telling me “Congratulations! Your screen time was down five per cent last week for an average of 3 hours, 48 minutes a day”. Urgh! That’s awful. Four hours staring at a screen in my hand (the S.O. will be tsk-tsking as he reads this: “And you tell me that I’m all the time on the phone”).
Therefore, one of the resolutions I made earlier this year was to try and be less dependent on the cuboid screen. I reached up for the cookery books which had been relegated to the corner-most shelf – out came Ottolenghi Simple and out came Green Kitchen at Home. I dusted my old alarm clock and I am trying to remember in which box my trusty crown-winding wrist watch is packed. I am also disciplining myself to turn off the phone when I go to bed and read a proper book – you know, one with pages which need to be leafed over.
Slowly, slowly, the screen time is going down. But that’s not the point of this column today. The Ickabog is J.K. Rowling’s latest children’s book, which, thanks to my mobile phone detox, is one of the books I’ve read recently.
A side-note here: I am an ardent supporter of Rowling. I love her not only because her writing has brought immense joy to millions, or because her Harry Potter books are an essential guide to life, or because she is an exceedingly generous philanthropist, I also love her because she does not fear talking about social or political issues. In Malta, most authors suffer from the ‘neutrality malaise’ and tend to believe that they should only speak about their own books and never talk or write publicly about current issues, which I believe is a disservice to society. End of side-note.
I don’t know how Miriam Dalli could look the nation in the eye
Back to The Ickabog.
It’s a fairy tale set in the prosperous kingdom of Cornucopia, a far, far away land, known for its heavenly sweets and the most exquisite of pastries. It’s a land where everyone is happy and “nobody was ever poor or hungry”.
Then, King Fred, fair-haired (balding?), with blue eyes and a penchant for wanting people to idolise him at mass meetings, takes over the kingdom from his father. Fred is consciously manipulated by his two right-hand men, Lord Schemb- sorry, Spittleworth and Lord Flapoon.
The book has been reviewed as a warm, whimsical tale. It’s anything but. It’s about corruption. It’s about lies, murders, blackmail, cruelty, unjust imprisonment, the oppression of freedom of speech and the dark side of politics. It is a story about the horrors generated by populism and greed. It tells children how the fear of speaking up gives more power to corrupt authorities.
Cornucopia is plunged into poverty and oppression and, even worse, its residents become convinced that it is a dreaded monster and it is the ‘traitors’ that are the problem, rather than the corrupt rulers.
In short, it is a déjà vu.
As a fairy tale it is comic and gripping for children. For the adult reader, it is a tragic reality shower couched in comforting language and an even more comforting ending.
The Evening Standard described it as “a light for when the other lights go out” and that’s very apt. It rekindled in me a little bit of hope, which makes me infinitely glad I’ve gone on a gadget diet.
PS. For those of you who are up for the real, hardcore, unfictionalised thing, look no further than The Third Siege of Malta by Manuel Delia and Alessandra Crespo. It brilliantly documents Malta’s Cornucopian journey over the last four years.
More light
And so, Malta is getting a second electricity interconnector to Ragusa. Which, of course, begs the question: why did we not go for this in the first place? Why did the country have to fund that multimillion-euro, privately-owned Electrogas power station? Why?
I clearly recall that, back in 2013, Joseph Muscat was repeatedly asked that question. His answer was always a smirk.
Of course, the real reason was because the fundamental aim of Electrogas was not to provide the country with more stable and cheaper electricity but to provide crooks with an illicit platform for corruption.
An interconnector with Europe would not have given the pretentious Gasans, the ostentatious Tumases and that ridiculous chap Apap Bologna, the possibility to line their pockets. And, above all, another interconnector would not have got the then prime minister’s right-hand men Spittlewo- sorry, Schembri and Mizzi, any kickbacks.
Now that they all got their share safely stacked up, now we’re going to get the second interconnector. I truly don’t know how Miriam Dalli could look the nation in the eye when she announced this.
krischetcuti@gmail.com
twitter: @krischetcuti