I step back and look at the car. It is slightly outside the parking bay which means that, technically, I am incorrectly parked. However, I couldn’t really do a better job as the inconsiderate so-and-so who mis-parked his BMW in such a way as to make it impossible for me to manoeuvre mine any further into place doesn’t leave me much choice.

“Are you sure it’s okay like this?” the Unexpected Mother says with a disapproving tone.

I shrug and figure that traffic wardens are hardly likely to be out on a Sunday afternoon and so we leave it as is.

I am back in Malta for the Christmas holidays and am in one of the shopping districts of the island. I used to work here in Sliema and so a few memories start to trickle back as we walk our way towards the shops.

First up is the narrow winding road, barely wider than my old Ford Ka. I used to trundle down this glorified country lane, scaring the local cats out of their slumber.  The residents tended to leave for work just as I arrived so a parking spot was virtually guaranteed round here. Now, a monstrous crane that silently hangs over us blocks the road. To my right, a sign with barely legible Latin inscription informs me that praying at this spot will knock a few celestial days off my penance in purgatory.

We advance a few paces and pause in front of a shop that has always had a rather eclectic mix of vaguely Asian furniture and trinkets. It is bedecked with items that the owner hopes people will buy for their loved ones. Opposite it, there used to be a beautician’s parlour and I often would walk past it watching women who were getting their nails painted as I hurried home. This has closed shop and is now a computer store with sun-bleached posters in the window and the promise of the latest technology.

We turn right and head towards the city centre.

We pass the supermarket that provided many bottles of wine when we would have something to celebrate at the office. Often, these celebrations were when people left – either because we wished them well, or because we were glad to see the back of them, as the case may be. On the corner, the large furniture store that was always void of customers is now a branch of ‘Next’ and I pause my trip down memory lane as I dodge a toddler who runs towards me chasing a balloon, giggling uncontrollably.

A block away, the normally traffic-thronged road is no more as it is now pedestrianised. The smart-looking benches squat down the length of the street, gleaming with the few rain drops that fell earlier this afternoon. I pass the spot that my brother once parked in when I dared him to find a parking slot in the middle of Sliema during the day. That rash dare cost me lunch that day.

Through the mall full of Christmas shoppers, up an escalator that sternly instructs me not to wear soft shoes, through a book shop, past a young man dressed as Mickey Mouse in a Santa suit and down a flight of stairs. We turn left and continue our shopping trip, the Unexpected Mother and I, while hoping to find whatever it is that she’s looking for.

The street widens at the bottom of the small hill. Previously, I would have ignored the lime-green structure that occupied the bulk of the small square here. It was an eye sore but it had always been there so when they tore it down a few years back, I felt relieved and disappointed in equal measures. I saunter along and suddenly stop.

In front of me, there is the sandwich shop that my colleagues and I often used to go to when working here. It was very popular and finding a table was always difficult for three main reasons:

1. The portions were generous and the prices were reasonable.
2. This was just across the road from the sea and the view of the capital city, opposite, is a breathtaking accompaniment to lunch.
3. On a particular night out, one of my colleagues had insisted that he saw one of the waitresses dancing in a skimpy outfit on a table in a bar. (We never did find out if his allegations of a strategically placed tattoo were correct)

What stopped me in my tracks was the fact that this sandwich shop is no longer there but has been transformed into a slightly smarter,

and perhaps more upmarket, cafe.

This is a fact that saddens me slightly. I have fond memories of sharing laughs and a few drinks here, bathed in the noon-day sun that is too hot in summer but which is welcome in the middle of December. I remember chatting to an old colleague of mine and being offered a job here. I can vividly recall the old lady who shuffled up to my chair, gave a small smile and inexplicably grabbed hold of my arm. She remained there for a few minutes and ignored our attempts to see if she needed anything.  When the ambulance arrived, the good-natured medics addressed her by name and explained how the poor dear sometimes left home without her insulin and, hampered by dementia, wouldn’t be able to explain that she’s lost.

Now, it has become one of the ghosts of landmarks past, destined to remain locked up in a corner of my consciousness and live on as nothing more than a fond memory. This is flip-side of being an expat; life back home will never be the same again.

Eventually, we get back to the car. It is still there, still mis-parked and still behind the arrogant BMW. Predictably, there is no parking ticket on my windshield.

Perhaps some things will never change after all …