Wet behind the ears... number the sixteenth

Since my bride Angelika is more than seven months pregnant, she's starting to look more than a little grotesque. So today - when she insists on joining me at 'Family Day' organised by the party, in Buġibba - I try to dissuade her.

But she comes anyway, looking utterly gross. So I stay as far away from her as possible... I mean, I can't risk being photographed near that great ugly thing. It could have a catastrophic effect on my political career.

Monday

Before leaving for his latest 'fact-finding' mission to Palm Beach, Florida, my minister charged me with updating the ministry website.

The site seems to comprise little more than 68 photos of the minister, with myriad local nonentities. Plus a detailed biography of the same minister, some of his less anodyne quotes and a page-full of eulogies about his honesty and integrity from such Z-list 'celebrities' as the secretary of his village band club, his parish priest, and his driver.

Fair enough; but my one insurmountable difficulty is trying to précis his 'message' from 14 sheets of closely typed A4 down to just the 300 words allowed by the webmaster. I may hear more about that.

Tuesday

As part of the Prime Minister's determination to promote us as a 'listening' government, tonight I am obliged to face questions from the public in my local każin.

Most queries seem to be merely parochial grumbles. I field several of these before interrupting one disgruntled female party activist with: "Please sinjura, if you have a complaint about refuse collection, take it up with your local council". To which she replies: "I did - and they told me to take it up with you".

Hmm, I was afraid this sort of political buck-passing would happen when they passed the Local Councils Act.

Wednesday

One of my constituents visits me in my office to hype the singing talents of his precious daughter. He insists she will be the next Madonna and is so talented he's trying to get her a scholarship into the New York Academy of Music. He blags-up her beauty and ability, then asks for my ministry's endorsement and, of course, financial assistance to support this "great talent". He then shows me some photos of this paragon. My God! She's enormous! I don't know about Madonna the singer, but this poor girl rather resembles one of those prehistoric figures they dug up in Tarxien. He also insists on playing me a CD of her voice. I'm no expert but - if an audition prerequisite is the ability to shatter prestressed concrete, she has a big future ahead of her.

I promise to give the matter my serious consideration and show him out.

Thursday

On many levels I really can't wait for Angelika to give birth in two-and-a--half months' time. Oh sure, I'll be a proud father, but more than that... at last I'll be rid of the kunjata. She has practically lived with us 24/7 during the whole of Angelika's confinement. And she's made the most of her omnipresence to give me an unrelentingly hard time.

Grrrr! If I'd known fathering a child could have led to this degree of grief, I'd have thought twice about my input in the whole business.

Friday

My cousin Pierre tells me to meet him after work in a bar in Bormla. He tells me that for a few grand he can make me a multi-millionaire. Whoah! Really? He nods.

Saturday

I never ever thought I'd feel sorry for my father-in-law; but today, after he phones to say: "I assume May (the kunjata) is there. Could you ask her where she keeps the tin opener. I'm getting a little sick of cornflakes followed by ħobż biż-żejt. Since Angelica got pregnant I've hardly seen her mother, she seems to have moved in with you".

I tell him I can fetch her to the phone. But he interjects with: "I'm feeling a little delicate so, no... I could do without her yelling down the phone".

Oh dear. And Angelika is so like her mother, in almost every way.