Seasoned in sleaze... number the 39th...

Return to Malta after an exhausting 10-day fact-finding mission in The Maldives. I spent my time there looking at ways in which the islanders devised novel and ingenious takes on creative lethargy. Fascinating stuff.

However, I don’t know how I’m going to fill my usual 12-A4-page report on spending 10 days stretched out on a sun lounger near the hotel pool. But I expect I’ll think of something.

Monday

Roll on parliament. Life at my home is total hell.

With about eight weeks of my wife’s pregnancy to go, the ­kunjata is in complete control of my house.

Having returned from The Maldives jet-lagged and knackered I am subjected to a litany of dos and don’ts re how I treat Angelika in her condition.

For goodness sake! Women have been getting in the club since the dawn of time; since when did it become a terminal condition? And what about my condition? I had a major part in this too you know! X’affarijiet dawn!

Tuesday

It really is the ‘silly season’ – and with 99 per cent of my parliamentary colleagues away from the island, the media are hard pressed to find any... news of note. So today I am telephoned by someone from the opposition – gutter press, intent on making mischief.

He asks for a quote from me on the “very strong rumour” that the PM is about to sack me from the government.

I reply, with a confident chortle, that – since there is no truth whatsoever in the rumour... he won’t get his quote.

My God! It’s not true is it?Who can I phone to check? This is terrible news!

Wednesday

In a blind panic I try to contact anyone who might know the answer; is my political career at a premature end? Eventually I get one of the mandarins from Castille on his mobile. He is relaxing on a beach in Vanuatu – wherever that is.

In answer to my blurted out query, he replies: “Don’t be a silly boy. I can assure you your job is safe – at least for the time being. Don’t panic and now bugger off and let me enjoy my hard-earned vacation.” Time being... obviously this does nothing for either my sense of security or self-confidence. Whatever happened to my prime ministerial ambitions?

Thursday

This morning, while having a coffee outside at Cordina’s, I happen to meet up with my father-in-law – and I remark on the fact that he is looking 10 years younger.

He smiles and replies: “Course I am, ever since my wife moved in with you for Angelika’s pregnancy I’m a changed man. I can take a beer from the fridge whenever I feel like one – and I’ve spent more time across the road here at the Casino Maltaise than I have for over 30 years.

“It’s a new lease of life, my lad. By the way, you’re looking rather stressed these days, take care.” Ha! I wonder why?

Friday

Since I am just about the only government politician left in Malta for the time being, I am asked to deliver the eulogy at the funeral of a veteran party grandee. However, as I stand up in the pulpit to deliver said eulogy... I spot the dead man sitting in the front row, very much alive and quite perky.

So it’s another grandee, eh? It actually doesn’t matter since my speech is the standard one, I merely omit to mention the dead man’s name.

Nobody notices... I hope.

Saturday

Am obliged to spend the day in Gozo, unveiling a plaque to a long-dead mega-rich Gozitan, who gave the party oodles of money. And I’m actually delighted to get away from the mother-in-law infested home, for just a few hours.

Life at home has become so unpleasant that even on those few rare occasions when I go to kiss Angelika hello or goodbye, the mother-in-law steps between us with: “None of that here; don’t you have any consideration for my daughter... your wife’s condition? Animal!”

Roll on the birth of – what I hope will be – my son.