Wet behind the ears

Sunday
Today I draw the short straw, so we're obliged to go to Angelika's parents for Sunday lunch.

At this time of year, they are at their summer residence in St Paul's Bay. Angelika's father, who imports paint, has his usual protracted moan to me about rising prices and government incompetence; while Angelika's mother goes on, and on, and on about the evils of the contraceptive pill.

I keep quiet. Well, Angelika's father is seriously rich and Angelika is an only child, so we should clean up big time one day. The trouble is, her parents are still only in their early fifties, and her bużnanna is still going strong at 96. So we may be in for rather a long wait.

Monday
While in Cordina's for coffee, I come face to face with my opposite number in the opposition. He is a cocky young lawyer, with attitude. He's actually from my year at university and I never cared much for him then either. I like him even less now I know he's an opposition lackey.

But he greets me cheerfully enough and buys me an espresso and a pastizz. Creep! But I get the last laugh: as he leaves my table I give his retreating form a one finger send-off, behind his back.

Tuesday
With the House still in recess, most of my parliamentary colleagues have returned from their vacations in various far-flung parts of the globe. They are now back - hard at it working for the country - on various 'fact-finding' missions in various far-flung parts of the globe.

But since I am only a very junior member of the government, I'm not yet in the freebie 'fact-finding' loop. Still, I'm learning fast - and by this time next year, I may well find that an urgent 'fact-finding' mission to Tahiti or Barbados is required. Watch this space.

Wednesday

One of my constituents, a 79-year-old spinster Cordina Grech, actually phones me on my mobile to ask for help. She has apparently received a letter and a form from the ETC, asking her to fill in the form telling them why she hasn't registered for work in the past 19 years.

Since I can never decipher their forms either, I waffle something about giving the matter my best attention - then call the mobile phone company and tell them to change my number.

Thursday
PM: Arrive home after work to find the kunjata present. I brace myself for yet another diatribe on my inability to get my wife - her daughter - pregnant. Instead she grimaces 'sympathetically' and says: "Angelika's resting, she just told me she lost the baby. I'm so sorry, for you both."

Baby? What baby? Oh yes, right. Good girl. You should never underestimate the value of a Sacred Heart education. Prosit Ang!

Friday
Today, the ministry carpenter - after 73 written requests - arrives to see how to make my cupboard under the stairs into a proper office. Apparently our proposed new accommodation in the former St Luke's morgue is in abeyance due to the recession. The carpenter arrives with tape measure and four assistants, then spends an hour and 37 minutes measuring my hole in the wall. After which he shakes his head and says: "Sorry ġbin, I can't do nothing to make it bigger. Best I can do to give you more room is cut your desk in half." Charming.

Saturday
Tonight, Angelika and I are invited to the Quasimodo Palace Hotel on the Pembroke peninsula, to celebrate the hotel's 10th anniversary. The ladies in their finery and dripping diamonds, the men in their white tuxes and drip-dry shirts.

As soon as we arrive I am spirited away to a corner of the ballroom by a prominent property developer, for a protracted moan about Mepa.

While I listen to his complaints, I notice Angelika chatting animatedly to Roland rolling-in-money Spiteri Gray. I know Angelika used to go out with him, so I extricate myself from the developer and rush back to Angelika. As I approach, Roland moves away. Phew!

But when I tackle her about it, Angelika laughs: "For goodness sake! Roland and I grew up together in Dingli Street. Our relationship has always been totally platonic! And, anyway, he's gay." So?