Sunday

Today the Cabinet is meeting at Girgenti again and I am, also again, invited to attend. Not, of course, in my official capacity, but as an observer.

And no I don’t get to sit at the Cabinet table… but I am allowed to touch it – once. The thrill of this moment is indescribable. Today, truly, my cup runneth over.

Monday

I have become the number one fan of the comparatively recent concept of parliamentary assistants. I think it was originally introduced as something of a sop to those lesser-light MPs who had not been given a post in the current government. But, dammit, it works! It’s a chain reaction.

See the way it goes is this: I, as Parliamentary Secretary for Fooling Some of the People Some of the Time at the Ministry for Obfuscation, am requested by my minister to source and research some facts and information on a given Parliamentary Question, for which my minister subsequently takes the credit in parliament.

Meanwhile, I pass on the minister’s request to our parliamentary assistant, who comes up with the facts for which I, er... my minister takes the credit in parliament.

Hang on – there’s a link missing in the chain somewhere.

Tuesday

With the recent financial crises in Greece and Ireland still reverberating around the corridors of power in Brussels and the European Central Bank, I seek the opinion of my minister – an acknowledged fiscal expert – on the stability of the euro currency.

He scoffs: “Stable? Of course it is. No worries there young man – best thing we ever did was to join the single currency… trust me.

But if you’ve got any spare euros hanging about, I advise you to do what I did and change them into Swiss francs pronto.” Right boss, sure thing.

Wednesday

Grant an interview to the editor of Malta Yesterday, a certain Salvu Birkirkara. He asks if the rumour is correct that I am disenchanted with the government and want to get out of politics… or do I intend to go down with the ship?

Ship? What ship? Oh I see. No sir, I am totally confident we are – to continue the metaphor – sailing into calmer waters piloted by an assured captain on the bridge. I must say I was quite proud of that, and I have no idea why it took him at least five minutes to stop sniggering.

Thursday

The pressure on the home front for Angelika and I to reproduce further is intensifying.

Today, the kunjata, not content with her almost unceasing nagging, gets her brother, a priest in Toronto, to e-mail me along the lines of: “It is your Catholic duty to bring yet another little Catholic into the world.”

I just hope that in the referendum, if it happens, we get a free vote. I can assure Jeffrey he’s certainly sure of one from this MP.

Friday

I am confused. No sooner are we ministers and parliamentary secretaries given a whacking great pay rise… than we’re told we have to give a chunk of it back.

When I enquire why, I am told it’s necessary to avoid a public scandal.

Well sorry il-Prim but I have a wife with expensive – very expensive – tastes and, just as soon as my pay rise was confirmed, she went out and spent the lot… plus a good deal more.

So what would you like me to do, mortgage my house… again? Or will a simple IOU suffice?

Saturday

This morning, much to my annoyance, Angelika makes the totally redundant point that – as I seem to be losing my hair – maybe it would be a good idea to invest in a hair weave… à la Elton John.

I am shocked and appalled; hair weaves are for the gays and geriatric saddos. I would never ever dream of going down that road. How dare she!

And anyway, I think my comb-over is practically undetectable… in poor light.