Wet behind the ears... number the eighteenth

My bride Angelika's gynae tells us the baby should be born on or around November 21. It... sorry she, can't come soon enough for me. I am just longing for the day the kunjata and my mother move out of our home. I seem to still be the only one who knows that the baby will be a girl. Angelika doesn't want to know and my mother and the mother-in-law are still adamant it will be a boy. I just hope their inevitable disappointment won't be blamed on me.

Monday

As one of the youngest members of the government, today I am singled out by the party's image consultant, who makes a few suggestions to "update my image". He is a rather precious young man who suggests I might consider a few highlights in my hair. I'll think about it. But I totally refuse to even consider his other idea. He lisps: "Onorevoli, maybe a couple or three piercings would be cute. Might I even suggest you have one erm... (he points at my crotch) down there." You have got to be joking - what happens if I get caught short? The damned thing will rust!

Tuesday

By chance, I bump into the Permanent Sec. at my ministry on my way back from lunch. So I take the opportunity to ask him when I am going to be moved out of my minute office under the stairs into something more fitting to someone of my importance. To my amazement, this sends him into an apocalyptic rage and he yells at me: "You're lucky to have an office at all. The Parliamentary Secretary for Papering over the Cracks has to make do with a desk in reception." I reply that I'd swap with him any day. At this the Perm Sec strides off, cursing audibly. Yes, I think I won that little skirmish... let's just hope I don't lose the war.

Wednesday

This morning my minister summons myself and all his top civil servants to a top-level meeting of great importance. He tells us he has been charged with making a presentation to the press, to ward off the rumour that Spin... sorry, Smart City, is rapidly tailing off into a mirage. We agree to invite the media on site to show them that everything is very much still on schedule. Mind you, it might be difficult to convince the entire press corps that Smart City is up to speed, when all we've got to show them is an eight-foot-square watchman's hut.

Thursday

An extraordinary occurrence today. I am sipping a coffee in the autumn sunshine outside Cordina's, when a rather attractive brunette approaches my table and introduces herself as Marlene Golcher Clark. When she spots my blank face, she elucidates: "I was at school with you. But then you'd have known me as Marlon Golcher Clark." Oh my goodness! She - he's changed sex! Incredible! Or maybe not; now that I come to think of it he always was pretty useless at football. So this was why.

Friday

After less than six months in the job, Celine, my secretary hands in her notice. But why pupa, we were just getting used to each other. She replies that she has acquired a Somali illegal immigrant boyfriend and he has persuaded her to emigrate to Gozo with him, to wage jihad in Għajnsielem. Amazing, I never realised that that little corner of our sister island represents the heartbeat of Western civilisation.

Saturday

For some reason I am charged with putting in an appearance at the Hibs Ground to represent my minister at a rugby match. Apparently, we are rather good at the game (about which I know absolutely zilch) and today we are playing against Latvia... or Estonia, or maybe it was the Galapagos Islands. I watch fascinated, but when I shout foul rather loudly at an obvious hands ball, the committee man next to me explains: "It's OK Onorevoli, in Rugby Union football they are allowed to handle it." Oh really, then why is it called football? Silly game.