Edward the concierge

He didn't have to tell us he liked sweets. His shirt straining to stay closed over his stomach and his marshmallow fingers showed it.

J and I had no preconceived plans on what we would do in Malta...just celebrate that we'd survived a painful time...even if it meant staying in our room and reading. We'd already lost one day by being held over in Rome but that's another blog.

He told us how he'd risen that morning thinking it was Friday not Thursday, and then got his son up. Unfortunately it made his son late for class.

"How old is your son?" we asked.

"19."

"Get him an alarm clock," we said.

Edward had what we began to think of as the Maltese face. Chubby cheeks (which would classify me as Maltese) and a low hairline (which would classify me as non Maltese). This isn't racist. After all, go to Ireland and there's lots of redheads (natural, not like my 66.6 Oreal colour) or Sweden with their blonds.

Between the laughter, he planned out two wonderful days of tours, telling what to see, and what we could miss.

He was spot on.

The next morning we gave him a thumbs up as we passed him in the lobby. He smiled back.

We didn't ask about the alarm clock.