Wet behind the ears... Number the twelfth

A rare day off. Or rather... it should have been. However, my bride Angelika's hormones dictate otherwise. Now I've heard all about pregnant women developing irrational food cravings during their confinement, but to demand... yes, demand, a large bar of French nougat at 6.25 a.m. is just... well a little bizarre.

Undaunted, I schlep out to Rosie's Confectionery and return with the bar at 7.10 a.m. precisely. My euphoria at doing the right thing is cut short when I return home. It seems that Angelika's craving has moved on to a large, juicy fillet steak. Oh God! Sweetie, would a giant, greasy hamburger do?

Monday

To the House to debate the latest harebrained scheme to totally ruin up Valletta. There is a proposal to abandon the idea of moving parliament to the Opera House site. Instead, the area to be excavated under St John's (the abandoned museum farce) should instead be developed into a subterranean parliament complex. As one of my more erudite colleagues commented: "We'd be abandoning one museum project for another." I decline to comment.

Tuesday

It's not easy being the son of a former distinguished minister. Oh sure, you get a headstart in politics; but ever after you are always being compared un-favourably to your father.

Today, I come under fire in the party's daily newspaper for reportedly stating that the newish leader of the opposition is a decent chap. Apparently, the old man would never have given the opposition succour of that kind. So, to prove that I am my own man, I pen my own denial for tomorrow's edition. No, it's not a retraction... I never said it... on the record.

Wednesday

I'm just about getting used to my new secretary. Celine is certainly decorative and - more importantly - tiny. She has to be to get into my office under the stairs at the Ministry for Obfuscation. On her plus side, she's got a pleasant telephone manner and her shorthand is lightening fast. The trouble starts when she has to read back what she's written. Apparently, they never covered that at secretarial school. Ah well, nobody's perfect.

Thursday

At home I am besieged by women. These days not only is my mother-in-law a semi-permanent fixture, now even my mother has taken to 'dropping in' for a cup of tea... several times a day. When she asks me if we know the baby's sex yet, I tell her that... even though Angelika is getting the usual scans, we don't want to know the baby's sex until it is born. Mother replies that she's certain it will be a boy, so it must be named Arthur Charles Maurice, after my father, her father and her grandfather. But since the mother-in-law is also insisting that most of her family's names be included as well... it could well end up as the child with the longest name in history.

Friday

This evening, the party's general secretary throws me to the Xarabank lions once more. The topic is: Are we squeezing enough cash out of the EU, or could we do better?

The panel comprises a multi-millionaire fish exporter, a Eurosceptic academic, a left-wing Euro MP, a fat lesbian... who makes KMB seem positively Eurocosy, plus the inevitable priest... and me.

After my reasoned and thoroughly well researched statement for the defence... er government, the fat lesbian sneers: "Well you would take the government's side; after all, your strings are being pulled from Castille." Not so! My minister operates out of our ministry... which is nowhere near Castille. Why are they all laughing?

Saturday

I am delegated to represent the government at a 'very important' dance show at the MCC. I take Angelika - who is not showing too much, as she's only two months gone.

Dance is not really my thing... skinny women and nancy boys in tight trousers... but to be fair these men are quite erm, masculine. But the evening is ruined by a sound system loud enough to pulverize granite. After, I go backstage to say prosit to the cast and to tell them how nice it was not to see any gay people on the stage. Behind me I hear Angelika say: "Oh my God!" Why? What did I say... Għid?