It's been a pretty good week. Sometimes, lifting the screen on the netbook and looking at the gently blinking cursor brings on a touch of the panics, being as there are 900-odd words to find and nothing much about which to discourse.

This happens most often in the dog-days of summer, when our dearly beloved politicians seem to take a spot of time off from blowing hot air and inconsiderately give us commentators the task of finding items of interest with which to divert and amuse you.

Not so this week; there's been plenty out there.

You wouldn't want to be Joseph Muscat at the moment, would you? Everything you do seems to backfire on you, not seriously and not enough to cause terminal political damage, but enough for people to start noticing that the honeymoon is over.

First, he had that moderately fractious interlude with the Micallef surname, where one of the clan was kicked sideways/upstairs and the other one introduced to a chorus of - well, how should one put it? - not exactly unanimous approbation from the rank and file. Jason of that ilk was put out to pasture, effectively, while Marisa of the Sliema Micallefs was brought on board and I don't think it's unfair to say that lead balloons have gone down better, generally speaking.

Then there was that rather peculiar way Dr Muscat latched onto Jeffrey Pullicino Orlando's claim that the "Affaire Mistra" (sound better than Mistragate) was not entirely free of some political shenanigans on the part of the jolly old PN. Dr Muscat's interpretation of that was to allege that the PN blew the gaffe on the Mistra thing in order "to divert attention from more important things".

With all due respect to young Joseph, that is nothing more or less than tripe, with onions.

Dr Alfred Sant, who, most people remember, had broken the news with such vim and vigour, and he came so close to pulling off a pretty remarkable coup (remember, the PN were about 6,000 in the lead by then, and Dr Sant's exposè dragged them back to the 1,200 or whatever it was they finished up with) that for Dr Muscat to turn around now and claim that the wool was pulled over Labour's collective eyes can only be met with a bit of a blank look and a "you can not be serious", thanking John McEnroe for the inflection.

Presumably, hoping he would garner unto himself the fond approval of the progressive and forward thinking elements of society, Dr Muscat went on (one assumes) to approve the establishment of a Lesbian, Gay, Bisexuals, Transgender Section within the Labour Party.

At first blush, this looks like an eminently inclusive move and one that should be applauded. Buzzzzzz, wrong answer, you are the weakest link, goodbye. In 2009, in civilised countries (which this one is, Christian Fundamentalist rants notwithstanding) ghettoisation of minorities is not a way forward that anyone with some sense of propriety likes and while the good faith and proper intentions behind the establishment of the LGBT Section are acknowledged, it's really just evidence of the way Labour still doesn't get it.

Leaving politics aside, there was also a bit of fun to be had with the fundamentalists.

That pretty silly ruling by the European Court of Human Rights about crucifixes in Italian schools gave fuel to every manner of genuine outrage and inane posturing and allowed a vent for the inherent insularity and xenophobia many suffer from and when I dared, on someone's Facebook page, to express the thought that perhaps we should concentrate more on Christian behaviour than on Christian symbols, I was shot down with such vehemence that I feared for the souls of my detractors.

Then there was the banning of what is by all accounts a pretty dire piece of writing from the campus at Tal-Qroqq.

Sure, fine, it might have been obscene, misogynist and lousy writing, but is that any reason for a ban? At the University, supposedly the very cradle of thought and exploration of ideas?

Switching to more agreeable pursuits, Rigoletto at the Astra in Victoria was very enjoyable, made even more enjoyable by the way so many people put so much of their hearts and souls into it. This thought apparently didn't occur to the superior gentleman sitting behind me in a shirt open to mid-chest (luckily with a black t-shirt underneath) who rather sniffily commented on the set. It wasn't La Scala but it was gutsy and not deserving of such a dismissive attitude on the part of the trendy one.

Finally, lunch was had on Sunday at Ta' Karolina in Xlendi and it was excellent and then some. Don't go there for lunch until next spring, as they close for winter, though dinner will be available while the weather permits. And now we're off to Tarragon for a romantic dinner to celebrate 30 years of wedded bliss and I'll report next week what the eight of us thought of it.

imbocca@gmail.com, www.timesofmalta.com/blogs