Wet behind the ears... Number the fourteenth

Sunday:
My bride Angelika is at that stage of her pregnancy where she seems to spend all her early mornings doubled up over the WC ejaculating her stomach contents.

Now I wouldn't mind this if it were done discreetly and quietly; but it's not. From 6 a.m. daily, my sleep is disrupted by the sound of Angelika heaving her insides up... loudly in our ensuite bathroom.

I mean dammit all, she is getting all the fun and pleasure out of being pregnant, while I - who has a hugely responsible ministry to run - am woken up at an ungodly hour... daily. I never thought Angelika could be so selfish!

Monday:
After more than 12 months in my post as Parliamentary Secretary for Fooling Some of the People Some of the Time at the Ministry for Obfuscation, I am still 'imprisoned' in my tiny office under the stairs at the ministry. And today - to add insult to injury - I discover that I am sharing my 'office' with another, when I espy mouse droppings on the floor. After summoning the permanent sec to view the evidence, I demand, nay implore him, to rehouse me in an office more suited to my status. He replies: "Sorry, but this is the smallest room available." Not funny, not funny at all.

Tuesday
One of the responsibilities of my parliamentary secretariat entails the discreet monitoring of my fellow ministers' behaviour. Last week, for example, I had occasion to have a quiet word with the Minister for Public Morality, about a much-publicised extra-marital affair he's currently enjoying.

So imagine my surprise when I am summoned to my minister's presence and told the minister concerned was deeply offended by my unfeeling intervention. Unfeeling? Surely nobody could find fault with telling the dirty old sod to be more careful. What's wrong with that?

Wednesday
To parliament, to respond to a rather delicate PQ. This morning my minister set off on a luxury AEP cruise, courtesy of an obscenely wealthy property developer. The PQ asks if there is any connection between the cruise and a recent permit granted to this same developer to develop a prime site in St Julian's. Absolutely none... and I have my minister's solemn word on that. Why is everybody sniggering?

Thursday:
Today, Angelika has one of her regular check-ups at the ante-naval or natal, whatever, clinic. I have meetings all day so the mother-in-law drives her to and fro.

When I arrive home this evening, the kunjata is waiting for me. She scolds: "Too busy to care for the needs of your pregnant wife... my daughter eh. It's a good job I was able to take her, or lord knows how the poor child would have got there and back." By driving herself, I suppose... same as she usually does. But I don't say so. Least said...

Friday:
This morning I am despatched to MIA to meet and greet the deputy vice president of Kazakhstan - who is on an official visit - and his entourage. After the formal welcome, we all line up for the playing of the Kazakh national anthem. When it ends the chief interpreter turns to me and mutters: "That wasn't the Kazakh national anthem, it was the Kyrghyz one. Oh come on! It began with a K didn't it? That's near enough surely!

Saturday:
Angelika's pregnancy is starting to get in the way of both our social life and - more importantly - my political career, if I let it.

Tonight, for example, we are invited to the home of an influential businessman for dinner. At the very last minute Angelika announces that she feels sick and can't go. For goodness sake! She's only pregnant! Women have been having babies since the dawn of time; she's really starting to annoy me with her selfish attitude.

So I go to dinner alone. I mean... I have my career to think of - right?