More than a little wet behind the ears

The party apparatus thinks it would be a very good thing for me and Angelika, my fairly new little wife, to attend the party's Family Fun Day at Ta' Qali. Angelika isn't keen but I get all masterful and insist.

Just lately her mother has been putting on the muscle over the fact that we've been married a year and Angelika's still not pregnant.

I am adamant Angelika attends this hideous party activity because - hopefully - seeing all those legions of screaming kids in the same place at the same time, will dampen her enthusiasm and act as a sort of psychological contraceptive. I think it worked.

Monday

Over four months into my new position as Parliamentary Secretary for Fooling Some of the People, Some of the Time and - while I sort of enjoy the kudos and the bowing and scraping of my civil servants - I am still stuck in my microscopic office under the stairs at the Ministry for Obfuscation. It's too small to even hold meetings in, so I have to vacate to the corridor outside. But when I ask the permanent secretary how the hell I am supposed to serve my country from a hole in the wall, he replies: "Oh I expect you'll manage. You politicians are awfully good at getting into and out of tight situations."

Tuesday

Today in parliament I have to explain why a stretch of fairly new road in Limits Of Rabat is now a potholed minefield, fit only for Sherman tanks and bulldozers. This would normally be the responsibility of the PS for Apologising for our Crappy Roads, but he's away on a freebie. So I get lumbered with the job.

Undaunted, I stand up and tell the House that I'm looking into it. One sarcastic member from the opposition benches is heard to mutter: "Well mind you don't fall in, or you'll break your neck." Cue laughter in the House.

And they call me immature.

Wednesday

Today I must be in my office by 9 a.m. for it to be blessed by some exalted cleric. He turns out to be an extremely tall, angular and very, very old monsignor who has more chance of squeezing into a Wendy house than he does of entering my hutch of an office.

After three attempts he gives up and does the business from the outside. He apologises, but I assure him I feel truly blessed.

Thursday

Tonight I attend the stag night of Jacko, one of my fellow law graduates. It's at a fenkata dive in Qawra and we all get slaughtered. It's 3 a.m. when the police arrive in Bugibba, just as we are tossing the last few feathers onto a well-tarred Jacko. Everyone gets arrested, except me. I wonder why that was.

Friday

Today I've been selected by GonziMalta to meet the media, to sell them a line about why the Manwel Dimech bridge took twice as long to complete as it should have done.

I face the cameras and recorders with the supremely confident air of a man who has recently undergone a half-day course in how to bull***t the media.

At the end of my erudite and selective explanation, and just as the media are expecting me to ask for questions, I jump back into my official car and get out of there. Yes, I think I'm starting to get the hang of this politics lark.

Saturday

Today my friend Jacko has managed to scrape off the gunk and sober up sufficiently to attend his wedding. The reception for 700 guests is at the Gran Castello Ostentatia. Jacko's bride's father is Renato Spiteri Gladwish of Squelsh Ltd, Malta's leading importer of incontinence wear. He's really gone to town for his daughter: Bollinger all round and Cartier goody-bags for all the ladies.

One fly in the ointment: When I look around, I note that practically all of my contemporaries' wives are pregnant - some extremely so. No doubt this fact is not lost on my kunjata, who is also present. As I'm constantly telling Anjelika: Just keep taking the tablets, pupa.