My attention was drawn, on Friday morning to the fact that I haven’t written anything fresh for a considerable time.

This is true and I have little, if any, defence to the charge of indolence. I shall, to use Victorian phraseology that so irritates the more excitable of the ladies and gentlemen of the press, essay (or is that assay?) a few sallies in my own excuse, such as the fact that I was busy writing the outline of the words of wisdom that, in my real life, I delivered of myself before the nation’s learned beaks.

Anyone who knows the way I work, though, will immediately see through this, as, although a degree of care must be taken when doing one’s job in such exalted company, it isn’t a task that should take up all my writing time.

I could also, though I doubt I shall do so with any degree of conviction, plead that so many people have been having so much fun with the previous edition of this blog, with comments flowing thick and fast (elevating me once again to a very creditable mid-table ranking in the “most commented” league) that I was loath to deprive them of their forum.

To which, I am morally convinced, you’ll go “yeah, right” and invite me to tug on the other one, the one that goes ding-a-ling.

Then there’s the argument that I’ve been having one of those weeks, the sort of thing that happens to all of us some of the time. What with Chelsea doing their best to justify a sponsorship from Pfizer or whoever it is that produces Valium and with the horrendous traffic making it impossible to get to the various places I had to be without ulcers being given fertile ground, the only thing I felt like doing whenever a few spare moments presented themselves was vegging out.

But, to be quite honest, which many Lil’Elves will think is pretty much an impossibility, the real reason why I haven’t blogged is that there’s been little to inspire me. In fact, if you cast your eyes upwards, you’ll see that there’s precious little that has inspired me even now.

I mean, for Heaven’s sake, what is there to write about? OK, fine everyone is up in arms because it’s going to cost a heck of a lot more to fire up anything electric, but until we find oil anywhere other than under a leaky sump, there’s precious little that can be done, though perhaps what little can be done could be done better.

But then, I’m no economist, so who am I to lay down the law on that one? Let’s agree that it’s the Government’s fault, shall we, and save ourselves having to think about the real world?

Then there’s Joseph Muscat’s egress from one Parliament and ingress to another, in that order, with Joseph Cuschieri doing what his brother should have done long ago, but for different reasons. Whereas (E)manuel Cuschieri was honour (!) bound to call it a day many years ago (about the time Labour suffered one of its electoral defeats, though I wouldn’t blame you for not knowing which one, there were so many) brother Joseph had little – relatively speaking – for which to do so. He was an Onorevoli and thus prone to hyperbole and adding to the world’s quota of hot air, but in this he was no more and no less culpable than most of his colleagues.

Still, someone had to make way for Muscat and it seems Mr Cuschieri drew the short straw. But there was precious little to inspire me in that story, though, and commentary on Muscat’s image projection at his swearing-in didn’t strike me as being something that would make a good blog, for all that there was ammunition there if I felt like it.

Going beyond our shores, as we should from time to time lest we fall into the trap of believing Malta is, in fact, the umbilicus of the world, the prospect of anything fun to write about recedes further and further into the pale blue yonder.

In the States, it remains possible, and terrifyingly so, that a bible-bashing, barely coherent, red-neck soccer-mom will find herself a heartbeat away from the Presidency. Given George Dubya’s performance, you might have said that a tough act to follow this was not going to be, but if that woman is anywhere near the seat of power come ’09, we’re going to look back on the last eight years with a fond recollection of the good times.

Over on this side of the pond, while the Europeans faff about trying to convince themselves that all this economic turmoil is all the fault of the nasty Yanks and that the Russian Bear is still the warm and cuddly soft-toy they thought it had become post-Glasnost, Gordon Brown is setting up the Brits for another bout of Thatcherism with a softer image, which might not be such a bad thing.

So there, friends, you have it. I haven’t mentioned immigration and bigotry, so the revoltingly rabid racists won’t be able to make nauseating excuses for themselves while calling me an immigrant lover.

You know the ones I mean, the ones that start “I’m not a racist but …”

It seems these fools haven’t learnt, yet, that when you start out with this statement, right-thinking men and women everywhere, even if they haven’t heard of William and his small ham, wonder whether the person concerned doth, indeed, protest too much.

I believe that in one particular case, the statement was made in good faith: I’m referring here to Joseph Muscat’s saying that he is not a racist while encouraging the Government not to sign up to the EU’s immigration pact or whatever it’s called. I doubt Muscat has a racist bone in his body, so he must have meant what he said.

Many others, however, do not convince me that they mean it when they say they’re not racist, because what they often go on to write demonstrates otherwise.