The first rays of the sun serve as an alarm clock to stir Alfred Sant and though he yearns for the luxury of a lie-in, he has trained himself to get up and face the day.
With the election campaign in full swing, he forces himself to dedicate a few more minutes to his outfit, after the strategy team gave him instructions to dress smarter.
"I am criticised for not taking enough care of my appearance. I may opt for the wrong shirt or tie, so sometimes I guess they're right," he concedes with a smile.
Once that's out of the way, he goes out for a short stroll to buy the newspapers, which he reads over breakfast. Since he underwent an operation to remove a malignant tumour in December, he has had to grudgingly give up his habitual menu of seven mugs of coffee.
"Nowadays, I stick to just two mugs of coffee and two slices of toasted bread with ham, followed by two pills - the doctor ordered that I eat three times a day, which is ridiculous," he says, pointing out that before he would stick to one full meal in the evening.
Ever the private person, Dr Sant is reluctant to let The Sunday Times into his home, but he volunteers information on how his morning is usually taken up by answering phone calls - he receives more than 30 at home each day - and replying to e-mails. Since he doesn't own a television - "I'm not a fan" - he surfs the Internet for the latest foreign news and updates on the US campaign.
It's 11 a.m. and Dr Sant emerges from his home in Birkirkara carrying his coat, a bouquet of flowers - which he plans to pass on to his daughter - and his black briefcase.
Getting into the passenger seat of his white Mazda 6, driven by Ġiljan Baldacchino, Dr Sant stops short of wearing the seatbelt to avoid unnecessary pressure on his operation scar, which is still relatively fresh.
"We're late," he says curtly, as he waves to an old man, leaning on a Zimmerframe, who has been waiting in the narrow alley to see the Labour leader.
He consults his notes for a few minutes, before putting them back in the briefcase, admitting that when he's not at the wheel, the car makes him feel queasy and nervous.
"My hands are itching to drive. I should get the go-ahead in the coming days," he says, recounting a funny episode of when he was wheeled into the operating theatre on December 27, around the time French President Nicolas Sarkozy had whisked his supermodel lover Carla Bruni to Egypt.
"My last thought before going under the anaesthetic was of Sarkozy having fun with Bruni... I thought: just my luck to be in hospital," he jokes.
Dr Sant curses the "excruciatingly bad timing" of his operation, which coincided with an election he has been eagerly anticipating.
However, driven by his sheer determination to win, he finds the energy to forge ahead with the campaign, albeit at a slightly more toned down rate than previous elections - "within the parameters of my doctor's advice".
At 11.25 a.m., the driver pulls over near the Gzira Health Centre, where the media are waiting for him to address a press conference on primary health and hospital management. Cameramen and journalists close in on him, straining to hear what he has to say. Back in the car half an hour later, he concedes that he does not have a bellowing voice, yet it did not make sense to shout at these events.
As the driver heads to the Labour Party headquarters in Hamrun, a white van pulls alongside the car and a young man looks in, hooting the horn and waving wildly. Dr Sant acknowledges him and the man keeps hooting the horn in glee.
"It's okay, it's okay... I heard you," he says.
At 12.05 p.m., Dr Sant enters his office - the arched wooden doors are adorned with a gold plaque engraved with the word Mexxej (Leader) - and prepares for the strategy meeting with general secretary Jason Micallef and deputy leaders Charles Mangion and Michael Falzon. To liven up the moment, Mr Micallef blows a red whistle to signal the start of the meeting, which lasts for an hour. Dr Sant is briefed on the upcoming events, mass meetings, and televised appearances.
"It's a very calm campaign and we've had everything prepared for a while now. We are getting our message across, but so is the other side - it's a good campaign overall," he says.
Politicians are invariably accused of twisting the truth. In this campaign, both sides have been slinging mud at one another. Was this all part of the game?
"It's to be expected that people twist the facts. We accuse them (the Nationalist Party) of it, and they probably say the same thing about us," he says, sweetening his black coffee with saccharine.
Being in the public eye can also attract personal criticism. Did it bother him that over the years, many have mocked the fact that he wears a wig?
"Any criticism goes in through one ear and out of the other. Dwelling on personal attacks would be a waste of time" is his unflinching reply, as he rests his face in the palm of his hands.
When the going gets tough, Dr Sant finds a listening ear in his 23-year-old daughter Marta, though most times, he tends to keeps things to himself, "like most people do".
"My daughter supports me a lot, even though she hates the trappings of politics and the vendettas that come with the job - she's apolitical," he says, his face lighting up at her mention. Throughout the day, he is careful not to let down his guard and if a statement is private, he'll stress it's off the record. While personal attacks don't bother him, he's extremely cautious to protect the privacy of his family.
It's 1.10 p.m. Dr Sant glances at his Burberry watch, which hangs loosely on his slim wrist.
"It's my sister's. We exchanged watches because since mine worked with movement, it stopped when I was in hospital. We haven't found the time to swap them back. It's the first time I'm looking at it with such detail," he says.
Slinging his coat over his left arm, he picks up his briefcase, touches base with his secretary to see if anything is pending, and then leaves for Sliema to have lunch with his daughter - homemade burgers - and to unwind before his next appointment.
Ġiljan picks up the Labour leader at 3.50 p.m., and whisks him off to the San Ġorġ Corinthia, St Julian's, where he has been invited to address a national conference geared to understand the implications of the reform treaty. He doesn't have a speech ready, but talks off the cuff. On the drive back to party headquarters he banters with Mr Micallef and his personal assistant Karen Magro, who tease him because he had no idea it was Valentine's Day the next day.
Discussing the billboards of both parties, Dr Sant comments that the one depicting him next to the qassatat (which plays a pun on his blunders), gives him an appetite, even though he's been advised not to eat them since the operation.
"When I was at university, I'd go for lunch at my regular haunt in Valletta for a qassata and a soft drink - it was a good meal in those days," he adds.
At 5 p.m. he's back at his office. The team briefs him on what's happening within the PN camp, and he gets some time to check his e-mails in peace, with no ringing phones or interruptions.
"I don't carry a mobile phone around - it takes over your life and I don't like it that people can get through to you at any time they want. I have one at home, which I use for emergencies."
At 6 p.m. he boards the 'Coach of Change', along with his deputies, a couple of ministers and candidates. He finds a seat towards the back, and settles in for the drive to Marsascala.
For Dr Sant, travelling is the most boring part of the campaign: a moment in the day where he feels he's in limbo, and if it were some other time, he would have probably grabbed 40 winks to pass the time.
As the coach pulls over at the first stop, a sizable crowd awaits him, singing the party's electoral song The Only Way Is Up... Labour, and shrieking "Fredu, Fredu".
"Not bad," he says, turning to Mr Micallef, as he waves automatically.
What's going through his mind as he descends from the coach into a sea of people?
"I'm just focusing on making sure I don't slip down the steps... otherwise it will be recorded on camera and remain imprinted in history forever," he says. However, mingling with the people is the most enjoyable part of the campaign, though he's very careful not to get crushed. His adrenaline really gets going if his message strikes a chord with the people.
Back on the bus, the next stop is Żejtun. On the way there, Mr Micallef receives a call informing him that there's a "mini mass meeting" gathered on the square behind the parish church. Dr Sant takes it with a pinch of salt, but is pleasantly surprised to see such a crowd, which welcomes him with fireworks and loud cheers.
Does he feel the message is getting through?
"This is just a whistlestop tour to repeat our message. Here you won't get any indication of whether it's getting across on a national level. These events fire local guns," he says, as he settles back in the coach for the last leg of the journey to Fgura.
At 8.30 p.m. he gets into his car, and his other driver, Frans Cefai, takes him home. Dr Sant would have normally prepared his dinner in a slow cooker, but tonight it's toast, since his daughter had fed him a substantial lunch.
He'll then catch up on some reading - the weeklies such as Newsweek or Spiegel, and a few pages from the book Under Two Flags by Ouida - before crashing out at midnight. The man who once listed sleeping as his hobbies, "never has any problems" dozing off.