Sunday

Feeling rather sorry for myself today. I am suffering – what I regard as – a grievous injury. It happened last week as I was descending the main staircase of the Palace in Valletta, on my way out of parliament.

Are the rumours true... and your mistress is actually a master?

As I was passed on the stairs by the dreaded Franco, in a vain attempt to do my patriotic duty as he hurried past me – as usual talking on his mobile – I stuck out my left foot in an attempt to... er discomfort him just a little and hopefully save the country. Unfortunately I missed, he hurried on oblivious, while I fell base over apex down the stairs. In the process I suffered multiple bruising and a sprained ankle.

There’s no justice in this world.

Monday

I limp heroically into work this morning. As I do so I am waylaid on the ministry’s steps by a juvenile predator from the opposition gutter press. He smirks and asks me how I managed to damagemy ankle.

I reply that it happened when I inadvertently tripped over a fifth columnist. I felt a lot better after that.

Tuesday

Morning: I am telephoned in my office by my mother, who saw me on TV limping into parliament yesterday. She tells me: “They are saying you were kicked by Franco, is this true?”

I lie: “Of course not, it happened when I threw myself in front of a truck to save a young child from being mown down.”

There is a slight pause on the end of the line, then she says: “So itis true.”

I don’t dignify this assertion with a reply. How could she? Myown mother!

Wednesday

Today my minister condemns me to travel south all the way to Cottonera, to address dockyard workers. He says he wants me to use my rhetoric to persuade them to change their allegiances and support our party in the upcoming election. I don’t say so, but this mission seems a bitlike asking turkeys to votefor Christmas.

However, I am pleasantly surprised to be welcomed courteously enough, and my speech to them is listenedto attentively.

I am euphoric! Does thismean my skilful arguments managed to convert a phalanx of Mintoffian acolytes to our moreenlightened philosophy?

Not a chance! Over lunch afterwards, one of their head honchos says to me: “Nice try ġbin, but do you honestly think anyone listening to that crap you were spoutingout there is going to vote foryour party?”

Erm... pass.

Thursday

If I ever had any thoughts that my current extramarital shenanigans could escape the attention of the kunjata, this was thoroughly deflated this evening.

When I arrive home, she is waiting for me with: “OK, who is she?”

I pretend I don’t know what she’s talking about, but she – as only she can – persists.

So, with my wife Angelika out of earshot, I go on the offensive with: “Well what do you expect;your daughter – my wife –has turned into a broody, child-fixated monster.”

The mother-in-law is unfazed and replies: “Then do your conjugal duty and give her a son. Or are the rumours true... and your mistress is actually a master?”

A what? No way! I just praythat – for my sake – the oneshe’s expecting is of themasculine persuasion.

Friday

Spend the evening electioneering in my district with my new chief canvasser Clive. We distribute fliers and offer high tea in my party club.

The evening’s results are singularly depressing. During the course of it I discern that, despite the impact of the world recession, the main problems affecting my constituents are: “Why do I have to travel to Birkirkara polyclinic to get my corns trimmed?”, “Why does the bus have to go via Birżebbugia, Dingli and Żejtun to get from myvillage in the north to Valletta?”, and “Why does the manager ofthe local party club never order enough lager?”

I give up.

Saturday

Afternoon: Escape from the crèche that used to be home, for a few hours with Ludmilla. That woman is a true athlete and can do stuff I didn’t know was possible. OK, so she doesn’t come cheap, but at least it means that as well as sex I also get an aerobic workout... at a price.