Seasoned in sleaze... number the 46th...

Sunday

That rare and wonderful thing... a whole day off. No meetings, no addresses to disinterested pensioners in party clubs. Twenty-four hours of complete freedom.

I’ve heard catchier tunes at a Taliban funeral

I fleetingly think of suggesting to Angelika that we ask her mother to baby-sit while she and I go out for Sunday lunch, but think better of it. When I informed my ‘beloved’ wife that I had a free day, her reaction put all thoughts of lunch à deux out of my head.

She snorted: “Huh! Does that mean you will be home all day?”

“No dear heart, it doesn’t.”

This afternoon I’ve planned to drive to Swieqi to see... ahem, Ludmilla. Why didn’t I think of taking a mistress before. Every politician should have one. Correction... every politician does have one... now.

Monday

To the House:

Where my colleague, the PS for Wasting Resources, makes an impassioned justification of his recent freebie... erm fact-finding visit to Barbados. Then – in the face of hysterical oppositionheckling – I rise and make aspirited defence of my under-fire colleague.

Naturally I did, I mean... who knows, if I am seen as a team player, when the next attractive fre – fact-finding mission comes up, I should be at the front of the queue.

Tuesday

When I arrive home after a hard day at the House and the office, I find the predatory mother-in-law waiting for me. She admonishes: “If you want a son and heir, you’d better do something about it... now! After two girls, the next child is bound to be a boy; so get on with it. You don’t want to be a middle-aged parent do you?”

Ha! Knowing my luck, I’ll have fathered a women’s hockey team before I manage to sire a son... and I tell her so. She sniffs and tells Angelika: “See, I said you should have married Julian Attard Depasquale; he’s already given his wife three sons... and he was married six months later than you.”

Wednesday

A big, big day for me.

This morning I am summoned into the presence of the big boss.

He charges me with a vitally important task; he says: “You don’t seem to have much to do at your ministry, so I want you to go around all the districts and then write a report for me about all the MPs in our party who are in danger of losing their seats.”

Sure thing Il-Prim, you can rely on me. All well and good, but I wonder how long it’ll be before Franco starts whining that he should have been given the job.

Thursday

Morning: On duty again at MIA. My minister despatches me to meet yet another EU VIP. This time it’s the Assistant EU Commissioner for Bankrupt Economies’ assistant.

He turns out to be a miniature Spaniard in built-up shoes and attitude. He proceeds to rubbish anything and everything Maltese and sing the praises of all that is Spanish. I tolerate it for a while, out of diplomatic politeness, but when he remarks that in Real Madrid and Barcelona... Spain has the two greatest football teams on the planet... I lose it and tell him that my own village team has been undefeated for over two years, not even Real and Barca can top that.

And it’s true... mind you, it cost our wealthiest backer a fortune... ahem.

Friday

While working this morning in my office at the ministry, the door is suddenly flung open and four men march in. They are led by my opposite number, the shadow PS for Constructive Lethargy. He appears to be giving instructions to some government architects.

When he sees me, he stops and says: “Sorry old chap, didn’t realise you were still here. But if this is going to be my office in a few months’ time... I’m going to make some alterations. I couldn’t work in this current squalor.”

The nerve of the man! How dare he!

Saturday

Afternoon: To the Salmonella Palace Hotel for a reception in honour of Malta’s entry for the Eurovision Song Contest. With the song playing in the background and after several large whiskies I am approached by a bearded fellow who asks me what I think of the song’s chances.

I reply: “It hasn’t got a prayer, I’ve heard catchier tunes at a Taliban funeral.” At which point he informs me it was he who wrote it.

Ah... yes, right. Just kidding, it should erm... do very erm... very well.