Braving a visit from the angel of death

Sunday:

I give up my Sunday morning to be driven to Super 1 TV for a… quote: “Serious political debate”. But when I arrive, the producer tells me that I – plus one opposition MP and three opposition sympathisers will be discussing: “The chronic failures of this government.”

So I turn on my heel and get my driver to take me home. There is no point in going through with this charade… for, as every sane person knows, this current administration has had no failures, not one… chronic or otherwise.

Monday:

Although the House is in recess and my minister and most of our civil servants are still on Christmas leave, I nonetheless put in a full day’s work at my desk. Since the perm sec isn’t around, my minister has dumped a number of parliamentary questions in my lap.

Replying to these is a skill I’m gradually acquiring; they fall into three categories. 1: Easy peasy; may be answered fully and truthfully, because they don’t reflect badly on the government… or the minister. 2: Hot potatoes; ignore the question and pretend you’ve been asked something else… then reply accordingly. 3: Potentially lethal; don’t answer and hope it goes away. Politics? Simple when you know how.

Tuesday:

I am warming to my ministry’s new-ish parliamentary assistant, an earnest, hard-working young lawyer who – like myself – is very new to parliament. From my elevated perch as parliamentary secretary I’m able to pull rank and keep him in his place.

Today, for instance, I get him to sign all my non-replies to the latest batch of PQs. No, it’s not passing the buck, it’s… it’s being politically astute.

Wednesday:

Today Angelika and I have words. She can’t understand why she can’t use my official car to take her round the shops to change all the presents I bought her for Christmas.

Apparently the Gucci watch I gave her is now so – so retro. And as for the €500 gift voucher for the very expensive boutique Desdemona Modes… according to Angelika, I might just as well have given her a voucher for a second-hand clothes store.

I’m beginning to think that JPO may get more support for his private member’s bill than even he envisaged.

Thursday:

Lunch at Rubino’s with an old friend Poxy Vassallo Frendo. At St Eds we formed a society The Terminators, to spread joy, fun and compound fractures throughout the academy. At lunch we talk over old times… like the occasion when we put Micky Dennison Borg in the ITU for two weeks after we pushed him off the Cottonera bastions… oh how we laughed. And the time we stole our housemaster’s SUV, then drove it into a wall at 70 mph. Ah happy days.

Friday:

A constituency surgery in my district is going reasonably well… until the parish priest parks his butt in front of me and asks for my support for a scheme to erect a statue to his predecessor – a recently deceased cleric who was under investigation for… ahem, shall we say erm… interference.

When I refuse on the grounds that I never get involved in parish matters, he turns as red as a turkey’s neck and threatens to arrange for both my de-selection as an electoral candidate and my excommunication… in that order. Seems like a fair deal to me.

Saturday:

Today we are visited at home by the angel of death… aka the kunjata. After eating a hearty lunch, the charade begins. She peers down at our daughter in her cot, sighs deeply, shakes her head, whimpers pitifully, then remarks: “Jaħasra miskina. It’s such a burden on the poor lamb to find out she’s an only child.”

I change the subject quickly by telling her I dreamt of her last night. Flattered she responds with: “Really? And what was I doing in your dream?” I reply: “Much as you’re doing now, but the dream had a happy ending.”

She enquires suspiciously: “And what was that?” I smile: “You fell into your cauldron and drowned.”

Exit Ma-in-law incandescent. Angelika and I are not speaking… again.