Sunday
This morning I borrow wifey's car to pop to the newsagent's. But, when I emerge from said newsagent's staggering under the weight of all those glossy supplements, I spy a bloody female warden near my car, writing out a ticket.
When I remonstrate with her, she replies: "You're parked on double yellow lines, guilty, guilty, guilty!"
I remove my dark glasses with a flourish and bellow: "You can't book me, you idiot... I'm a minister!" She shrugs, continues writing, and says: "I don't care who you are, you've committed an offence... you're booked"!
God, the arrogance of these people! We'll see how arrogant she is after I transfer her to Gozo.
Monday
Long hard day at the ministry, punctuated by a visit from a lesbian delegation calling themselves Dykes Dislikes... And their dislikes seem to encompass just about everything we, as a government, are trying to do.
Their leader, who bears a quite uncanny resemblance to Jacques Chirac... only much butcher, jabs me in the chest and insists that I... and the rest of the Cabinet, abandon our homophobic policies. Well I - we would, if only she'd explain to me what the word homo... whatsit means.
Tuesday
Am invited onto TV discussion programme, to lock horns with Lou Bondì's studied cynicism. Acquit myself brilliantly, every single manoeuvre that Lou tries to unsettle me, I counter with a rapier thrust and a cogent argument. The poor chap is beaten and he knows it. As my father always told me: "The first rule of politics is always to make sure you can shout the other fellow down... and thank God I've been blessed with a very loud voice."
Later to V's: But forget my key... damn! Fortunately V opens up for me, which is just what I'd expect, really.
Wednesday
My driver Karmenu (no, not that one!) informs me that he's going on leave from today. My life and limb is to be entrusted to a temporary driver... a Somali refugee whose idea of a sedate drive is gas hard down at every roundabout and handbrake turns into my ministerial parking slot.
When we arrive, he switches off the engine, inhales deeply, turns to me and says: "Can you smell it, boss"? Smell it? I'm bloody sitting in it.
Thursday
After the fairly recent high-profile resignation, everyone is getting a bit twitchy down at Pietà, everyone except me, that is, since my record is unblemished. Well... if nobody finds out, that's the same as unblemished... right?
My confident swagger seems to unnerve some of my more... vulnerable colleagues. In parliament today, one sidles up to me and whispers: "Are you feeling the heat, old chap"?
Me! Why on earth should I? He shrugs: "A better man than you has fallen on his sword. I wondered..." No way! I'm here for the long haul. I have a duty to my constituents. Besides... I also have a very, very expensive mistress. Does that satisfy your curiosity?... Good.
Friday
Another long day at my ministry is pleasantly interrupted by a long, leisurely lunch with an old friend from law school. He's long since emigrated to the UK and is doing very nicely, thank you. Over our fourth bottle of burgundy he tells me: "I've become the most sought after divorce lawyer in the Home Counties. I clear two million a year, not counting tax-free perks."
Bloody hell! What have we been missing out on all these years? Get me the PM... on his private mobile number.
Later to V's: panting for it... but... yes, at my age I should remember that alcohol and sex just do not mix.
Saturday
A day off... well not really. A party "activity" at Ta' Qali, which despite my protests, I'm "invited" to attend. Lots of jolly stalls selling things I'll never need, and lots of jolly face-painters daubing children's faces and offering to paint mine. No thank you... unless you can make me look like Tom Cruise or, at any rate, 40 years younger. No, I thought not, then get lost. I really hate these things, what have they got to do with politics?