Wet behind the ears... Number the eleventh

My wife - my bride Angelika is pregnant! I don't know whether to be ecstatic or apprehensive. I certainly don't know how we are going to bring up a child on a Parliamentary Secretary's salary.

To 'celebrate' the occasion, we are fêted to lunch today at Angelika's parents' house. Her mother is, naturally... elated. But even then she has a knack of getting at me. As we are leaving she draws Angelika aside and in a loud whisper asks her: "I suppose you are certain it's his, are you?"

I am speechless.

Monday

News travels fast on the fabled Malta grapevine. As I arrive at my office this morning I am congratulated on Angelika's condition by just about everybody in the building. Turu, the chief messenger, whose wife has presented him with no fewer than 11 kids, so far, pumps my hand and informs me: "Prosit Onorevoli... and don't worry; the first one's always the hardest. By the time she gets near double figures, she'll be spitting them out like kittens."

The imagery alone is enough to make castration seem like an attractive alternative.

Tuesday

At parliament today - and while using the washroom during the recess - I am joined at the next urinal by one of the former ministers who lost his ministry at the last election. During the course of our... exertions, he asks me how the job is going. I reply: "So far, so good". He snorts: "I'm pleased for you; but don't be surprised if - come the next reshuffle - and after you've given your all selflessly for the party and the country, you find yourself tossed unfeelingly aside like an old shoe... just as I was. But please... don't think I'm bitter about it. Oh no, my loyalty has never been in doubt."

That's not what I heard, but I don't say so.

Wednesday

We are currently involved in bilateral talks with Libya on a number of relevant issues - and I am delegated to meet and look after an important official of the Jamahirija from Tripoli. When we arrive at his hotel he tells me: "Nice to have met you, we Islamic people must stick together... now, where's the bar?"

We discuss for two hours and I think things are going rather well until he suddenly demands: "I wish to continue these talks with your Prime Minister Mr Mintoff. He is a true friend of our Jamahirija". Help! They never taught us how to deal with that one at law school.

Thursday

The bloody mother-in-law seems to have taken root in our house. She claims she's supporting Angelika through her pregnancy. Am I going to have to endure another eight months of this?

This evening she tells me: "Angelika needs to be nursed gently through her confinement, which means no more... you know what for you my lad, until some time after the baby's born. Then you can do what you like, since you don't want to leave too big a gap before the second one is born." Second!? We haven't even taken delivery of the first one yet. The prospect of a vasectomy is looking more appealing with each passing day.

Friday

A potentially contentious PQ (parliamentary question) for my minister, has landed on my desk. It's a tricky one and asks: "How many euros for culture and the arts has the government managed to obtain from the EU?"

Well, as everyone knows, nobody really gives a toss about culture and the arts, I mean... how many votes does it garner? But we, as a government, mustn't fall into the trap of saying so. So I draft a reply which says absolutely nothing in a great many words and - more importantly - admits nothing either.

Yes, I think I'm getting the hang of this politics lark.

Saturday

Now my mother is getting in on the baby hysteria. When I call on my parents today, she beams: "It will be a boy; our family always has boys first. Daddy and I are thrilled of course - and I hope the news will help him get over the disappointment of being overlooked for President; ja hasra. He was banking on it and so was I. I'd even chosen the curtain material for San Anton. No, it'll be a boy now you'll see." I pluck up the courage to say: "But what if it is a girl?" Bad move... this is going to be a very long eight months.