Today my minister condemns me to travel to Għasri, Gozo... to put the government’s side in – what he called – a youth political forum. The panel comprises a 16-year-old self-confessed pinko, a post-pubertic lesbian leftie... and me.

I chance to come up behind the dreaded Franco... talking – as is his wont – on his infamous mobile phone

I am subjected to a 40-minute rant by the junior Mintoffian, who suggests that since this government has failed in all its aspirations... the entire cabinet should be taken out into Castille Square and shot. I obviously disagree strongly, but I do have a certain sympathy with his views. I mean... how else am I going to get my own ministry?

Monday

To the House.

Where I find that many of my colleagues on my side of the house have rather beaten me to it. Anticipating the worst, they have exhorted the likes of RCC, Johnny D and Simon B to work untiringly to find them untiring work in Brussels.

And good luck to them; I mean Malta House in the Belgian capital is big enough to accommodate not just the whole cabinet... but indeed the whole party.

Tuesday

To the House again... God I’m a martyr to duty.

Today I am rather proud of myself. While wandering through one of the corridors in the Palace, I chance to come up behind the dreaded Franco... talking – as is his wont – on his infamous mobile phone.

I pause in mid-stride – then, standing less than 10 feet from his turned back – I stick out my tongue.

It’s OK he doesn’t see me. But boy it felt good.

Wednesday

It’s not that I’m naturally pessimistic you understand, but I am extremely mindful of the fact that, in a reasonably short time... I could be out of work.

These days lawyers are two a penny and any hopes I may have had of joining my father’s old law firm evaporated when the last of the partners retired recently.

And the only other member of the family in the advocacy business is my cousin Karmenu.

But last year he stopped practising law, had a sex change and was recently seen working in Paris at the Turnabout Club as an exotic dancer called Lulu La Creme.

So please il-Prim don’t call an election before I am able tofind alternative employment... please.

Thursday

The current political mood is catching. When I arrive home from the ministry this evening, my wife Angelika greets me with: “If, as seems increasingly likely, you lose the next election and are out of a job... whatwill happen to me and our daughters?”

I reply that I am seriously considering seeking a post in either Brussels or Strasbourg. She responds with: “Well don’t think I’m going to join you. If you go, you go without me.” Who said anything about her joining me? The prospect looks rosier by the minute.

Friday

Oh the shame!

It has come to light, particularly in the opposition gutter press, that my cousin Angelo in the UK has received a hefty fine for shoplifting in Harrods.

My family is devastated, nothing like this has ever happened to us before. But one of my parliamentary colleagues is most suppor-tive. When he phones me this morning, he says: “Never mind ġbin, it’s not so bad and it could have been a hell of a lot worse.

I mean you could have been related to a – to a banker – and that would have been really shameful.” True.

Saturday

Am guest of honour at a Maltese wine-tasting evening at the Med Con Centre. In my speech I blag up Maltese wines as superior to French plonk and on a par with the best Tanzanian vintages.

And with all that free screech flowing, I’m afraid I get totally bladdered and somehow end up in bed with a Ukranian lady of dubious character... who tells me she’s thrilled to be... involved with a real live Maltese politician.

Oh right, sure... good for you Ludmilla. You know, I think I have just discovered the answer to my marital problems. I wonder what the Russian is for the word mistress?