Sunday
I volunteer to answer the phones on L-Istrina. But when I get there... I'm told I'm taking part. This entails being dressed in an outsize baby's bonnet, a large dummy being stuck into my protesting mouth; then being pushed in a pram by the Opposition Spokesman for Inappropriate Behaviour. My protests are in vain and I end up being shunted up and down the studio in a pram race.
I just hope and pray that my mother wasn't watching. God, the embarrassment!
Monday
My minister - the Minister for Obfuscation - is in hot water with the opposition Sunday media. A football freak, he apparently accepted a lift on the yacht of a prominent local businessman to sail up to Genoa to watch his favourite team, Sampdoria, play. And he is in a particularly tetchy mood when he turns up at the ministry this morning.
But when I ask him if he'll have to resign over the incident, he replies: "Don't be silly. In case you hadn't noticed... we are in government. The only time we ever resign is when the mortgage is paid and there are enough of the readies in the Swiss bank account. Get real!"
Tuesday
I do a radio interview on our party station to explain my parliamentary secretariat's policy for the new year. My interviewer is one of those post-pubertic communications graduates, whose only drawback is a complete inability to do just that... communicate.
She seems determined to tee me off and aggressively barks her questions at me. When I attempt to answer, she constantly interrupts, telling me not to prevaricate. So... I'm not even allowed to clear my throat? I was treated better at Super One... much better! Whose side is she on, for goodness sake?
Wednesday
To the House, where the Opposition Spokesman for Labouring the Point attacks my minister as a political dinosaur, and me as an inconsequential irrelevance. What does he know, ignorant leftie? I am an upwardly mobile, thrusting young politician, full of ambition and flair. At least that's what the ministry's spin-doctor has told me to say whenever my chronic lack of experience and ability is questioned.
Thursday
I had hoped that once our daughter was born, our house would be free of extraneous females. Some chance! The kunjata's presence... and less so, that of my mother, is as pervasive as ever. When I leave for the office... the mother-in-law is there, and when I come home at night... she's still there.
One thing it's taught me is that when she's widowed, there's no way she's coming to live with us. It's straight into Casa Arkati and to hell with the dent in our inheritance.
Friday
A routine day at the ministry is broken pleasantly with a morning coffee at Cordina's. But as I'm sipping my cappuccino and scanning The Times, two men, father and son, approach me. The father informs me that he's always voted for the party and has never before requested a favour... but his terminally dense-looking son is a computer genius and needs a job... with the government, naturally.
I protest that I'm unable to help, so the father snorts to the son: "I said he was useless. We need to talk to a proper politician." How dare he! If he had approached me properly I'd have got his son a job. Now he can get stuffed.
Saturday
For some time now, Angelika has been nagging me about doing some maintenance jobs about the house. So today I roll up my sleeves and set to work. But... just as I'm busy supervising the workmen from the sofa in the sitting room, the omnipresent kunjata enters and bitches: "Make sure they give you a VAT receipt for this... or you could end up in the same boat as Tonio Fenech."
I wish I could remember from my legal studies, the correct term for the murder of a mother-in-law. What about shrewicide?