To misquote various members of the British royal family: "We are a daddy."

On November 22 at 4.30 a.m. and weighing in at three point two kilos, Annabelle Agnes (sadly her maternal nanna's name) Grace (my mother's name) entered the financial recession and the world.

My mother is still crying foul, since she's claimed all along that our firstborn would be male. The kunjata is also bemoaning the fact that I - never her precious daughter's fault - couldn't ensure her first grandchild would be a bit more masculine. I'm just grateful that it's here. Now maybe we can lose at least two of the females that have invaded our home over the past nine months.

Monday

Accept congratulations from my minister and various minions at the Ministry for Obfuscation. I even take a phone call from the big boss with his felicitations. Yes, well Prim, I suppose it is quite special to become a father and - even though I couldn't stomach being present at the actual birth, it was a very stressful time for me. Angelika? Oh she was fine; all she had to do was give birth.

Tuesday

This evening, as I stand on my ministry's steps, waiting for my official car to drive me home, Wenzu, who owns the pastizzi kiosk in my village, stops in his rickety old van and offers me a lift home. I refuse, naturally. Well... with a certain recent trip to Spain still making waves, the last thing I need is the media on my back for accepting the favour of a lift from a local businessman.

Wednesday

To Parliament, where I am obliged to reply to a PQ from the opposition spokesperson for rocking the government's boat. He wants to know what we are doing about climate change; because, in his opinion, the Maltese climate has become more extreme in the last 20 years. I reply that, on the contrary, since 1987 our islands have been cooler in summer and milder in winter - and I have the figures to prove it.

He snorts: "What cheek! This sterile administration is surely not claiming credit for the weather now."

Of course not, but as Parliamentary Secretary for Fooling Some of the People Some of the Time, I am merely fulfilling my function by pointing out the fact... erm...

Thursday

With our new daughter just over two weeks old, I'd rather hoped we'd be well rid of the constant presence of my mother and Angelika's. But, no way! This evening, as the mother-in-law is leaving - after a prolonged final coo at the cot - she murmurs: "Right, I'll be over tomorrow nice and early." But for God's sake, why? Later, when I tackle Angelika on the subject, she replies: "Mummy is a great help to me. Don't forget she's raised four babies, this is my first." And if this is the outcome... it will also be the last. Trust me.

Friday

Christmas lunchtime drinks at my ministry - the perfect opportunity for me to nail the permanent secretary about moving from my minimalist office under the stairs, to somewhere more fitting to my status. But as soon as I enter I am besieged by freeloaders and hangers-on all seeking favours. I can see the permanent secretary but I can't reach him. I swear he sent these people over just to thwart me.

Saturday

Tonight I am asked to switch on the Christmas lights in my village. A task I'm only too happy to accomplish. The mayor has set up a podium outside the band club and - after a short burst of out-of-tune Silent Night from the village band and a slightly less short speech from myself - I flick a switch and my village is transformed into an illuminated fairyland. It is a spectacularly glittering light show, at which we all gasp. Until we hear a muffled bang, see a large cloud of smoke and the entire island is plunged into pitch black darkness. I blame the mayor (from the opposition party naturally) for plugging the whole lot into old Mrs Buttigieg's domestic supply. Something had to give... and it did. But at least they can't blame the government for this one.

Merry Christmas.