Sunday:
Today, goodness knows how, I manage to persuade Angelika to leave the sanitised sanctuary of our home and bring our baby daughter Annabelle on board the luxury yacht belonging to my brother-in-law David.

Dave is a lawyer working for the EU, so it goes without saying he has reached billionaire status… and then some. His yacht is awesome and would give Roman Abramovich’s new floating Camelot a run for its money. It also has a Filipino crew and a helipad.

Angelika is unimpressed and stays close to Annabelle all day; “Mhux she falls in the sea.” Totally ignoring the fact that the child is below in the saloon, secured within a baby-bouncer attached to a stanchion, which renders its chances of toppling overboard nil. I’m beginning to wonder if I made the right choice of wife… career-wise.

Monday:
With the summer holidays drawing to their close, my parliamentary colleagues are beginning to drift back home after their assorted ‘fact-finding’ and other freebie trips. I do my best to avoid them and their travellers’ tales, but...

This morning, while having a coffee at Cordina’s, I’m besieged from all sides: “Oh hi; thought you’d like to see one or two (hundred) shots I took while on my friend Richard Branson’s… yacht.” Or, “This is me and Marie in the Sultan of Brunei’s private garden. Aren’t the peacocks amazing?” Or: “I just love Monaco at this time of year… and this time our trip was doubly exciting as we were the guests of Prince Albert.”

And Angelika panics when we motor 50 yards from the shores of Malta! It makes you want to spit!

Tuesday:
Today the PM volunteers me to assist in a clean-up of the sea bed off Tigné Point. I am excused the indignity (and danger) of actually scavenging for detritus but – with TV and press cameras present – I’m obliged to squat in the attendant luzzu to receive the various bits of junk brought up.

I sincerely hope my grimace – as various bits of rusty metal, plastic bottles and disembodied animal parts are passed up to me – translates into a willing smile for the cameras, but I doubt it. It’s a well-worn cliché that politics is a dirty business… today I can confirm that, categorically.

Wednesday:
With best part of a month to go before parliament reconvenes, I have been immersing myself in the complexities of my portfolio. There are many grey areas in the Parliamentary Secretariat for Fooling Some of the People Some of the Time – and not all can be easily explained away. So I’ve been spending hours in front of my enormous office mirror, perfecting my open, honest persona and – it’s proving more difficult than I had thought.

Thursday:
In the wake of the UK parliament’s expenses scandal we are being doubly careful – not to get caught. So my minister, before submitting his expenses claims from his most recent ‘fact-finding’ missions to Bali, the Seychelles and South Africa (coincidentally during the latter stages of the World Cup), asks me to check and endorse his claims.

I do so and, yes, of course it was essential for him and his, erm, lady-friend to fly first-class everywhere – and stay in the very best hotels. My one nagging doubt is whether in obtaining the vuvuzela agency for himself, his excess baggage claim of €6,500 is entirely kosher. But hey! Why be a minister if you can’t enjoy a few perks?

Friday:
I am absolutely livid! Today I discovered my so-called colleague the Parliamentary Secretary for Apologising for the State of the Economy has been given a brand new official car. What are they thinking of? He finished well below me in our law finals and has never attained my exalted level of academic brilliance.

But when I complain to our Permanent Secretary, he replies: “It’s because his was the oldest model and only fit for scrap.” That’s beside the point; seniority should prevail. I am not happy.

Saturday:
Rosario, the brother of my driver Tony, breeds pug dogs. Sweet little things with squashed faces. Through Tony, he offers me a free puppy. Great, it’ll be good for Annabelle to grow up with a pet.

But when I tell Angelika she gasps, then yells: “How could you? Even suggesting we put our firstborn at risk of some horrid disease carried by some filthy mangy creature.” Yes, of course, I should have known Angelika doesn’t do paranoia by halves. Ah well…