Sunday:
The House is in recess and the majority of my fellow MPs are abroad, either on a holiday or on a freebie - mostly the latter. I and Angelika would normally be joining them but, sadly, this year with Angelika's pregnancy now blatantly obvious, it's a no-brainer. I mean... I don't want to be seen on some Seychelloise beach with her in her current condition. So I make the supreme sacrifice and stay home.
Roll on November, when she can have the child and my life can get back to normal.
Monday:
The fallout from the UK MPs expenses scandal continues, several months on from the original denouement. More resignations, de-selections etc... Mercifully that sort of thing could never happen here; where our MPs are all - to a man or woman - totally honest and trustworthy. At least the ones from our side of the House are.
Tuesday:
The PM is one of the very few MPs who is yet to take his break - and is turning up for work as usual. So, I make quite sure he knows that so am I by first of all ensuring that he sees me turn up at my office, just down the road from Castille, by synchronising my daily arrival with his. And by copying him all the e-mails I send round on a daily basis... however trivial. No, it's not crawling; it's called strategic positioning.
Wednesday:
My minister is on a 'fact-finding' visit to Hawaii. He had a choice between Hawaiian tourist resorts and Ukranian coalfields. He went for the tourist resorts - surprise, surprise! Today he phones to tell me he's just touching base and is currently in consultation with the senior most powerful figure in Hawaiian tourism to discuss cooperation between their tourist board and the Malta Tourism Authority. And no, that sound in the background is not that of waves crashing on the beach, but the noise made by a photocopier churning out copies of his report. Yes, of course, Onorevoli... whatever you say.
Thursday:
One of the unofficial perks for turning up for work when the House is in recess - and the permanent sec is also away, is that I base myself in the minister's office, instead of my own hovel beneath the stairs. And, since I happen to know his password, I get to see all the e-mails sent to my minister; especially the ones marked: 'For your eyes only'. Some are very entertaining; oh, and I must remember to ask him who is Sweetikins? Others are downright scary. For instance: Did you know that Adolf Hitler is alive and well and living in sin with someone called Eskimo Nell? No, neither did I. Should the CID be told?
Friday:
This morning I am roused from my bed at 6.10 a.m. by a constant ringing of my front doorbell. It is old Mrs Apap, from two streets away, who screams at me: "I've just got back from Mass to find no electricity at home, so I can't even make a cup of tea. Do something about it... now!"
I try to explain that my portfolio as Parliamentary Secretary for Fooling Some of the People Some of the Time at the Ministry for Obfuscation precludes me from dealing with trivial local matters like power cuts and tea making. But she shrieks back that since she voted for me (a big mistake, she now claims) I am her representative in Parliament, so I should get off my butt and fix her electricity.
You know... now and again I get the feeling that maybe this politics lark is not all it's cracked up to be.
Saturday:
I'm feeling a bit mean about Angelika. She's now so fat, ugly and pregnant she's definitely not the girl I married. But hey! For better or - God help us - for worse eh. So this evening I take her to a restaurant for a slap-up meal.
It must be her hormones because I thought she liked pizza. And so what if it was a free meal my sister won on a radio phone-in. It's the thought that counts, right?