Sunday
After Mass at St Geronimo's this morning I am approached by an irate parishioner who berates me and the government, for "permitting" (his word) an illegal Somali immigrant to move his extended family into the next villa to his. And how would I like it if some iswed went around slaughtering goats next door to me.
I counter that in our farmhouse this sort of thing is commonplace. My next door neighbour, Grezju, has a penchant for bumping off pigs in his yard and believe me pigs - when they're being topped - make a hell of a lot more noise than goats do.
Monday
Everybody thinks I've got it made, since Pa was a distinguished Minister for Greasing Palms and later Minister for Excusing Government Incompetence. But it's not easy being the son of a political legend... or even the grandson of one. Old people still remember my 87-year-old nannu, who served many years during the 1960s as the Hon Minister for Getting Up Mintoff's Nose. It's not easy succeeding two mega-intellects like theirs.
Tuesday
My duties as a newly-appointed minister... sorry Parliamentary Secretary, get more and more bizarre. Today I am sent by Gonzi/Malta to the Valletta Waterfront. Once there I am handed a basket of paper flowers and told to present one to each disembarking tourist from a docking cruise liner.
What? I'm not a flower girl! A senior civil servant present assures me, this is not just any old liner... but the Courtesan of the Oceans - the biggest liner ever to visit Malta. Nevertheless I feel a bit of an idiot handing out flowers. But the tourists are all terribly nice and appreciative - one even gives me a €5 tip. Sweet eh!
Wednesday
I'm getting very fed up with having to carry out my ministerial duties from a cupboard under the stairs at the Ministry of Obfuscation. Damn it I am a leading figure in a democratically elected government, albeit one with a wafer-thin majority.
So today I take my courage in both feet and tackle the permanent secretary about this untenable position. He - to my surprise - smiles and says: "I entirely agree and - as soon as we move to our new offices in the former St Luke's morgue, you'll have an office that befits your position. But, with all the cost cutting we have to endure these days, I'm sure you won't mind if your desk happens to have seen service as a mortuary slab....? Erm?
Thursday
Some bigwig in my electoral district has died and the parish priest asks me to do the eulogy at his funeral. I agree wholeheartedly and spend the evening mugging-up on the life and career of the bigwig.
At the funeral I let rip with a flowery hagiography of the deceased... until I look down and see the man I thought had died sitting in the front row looking puzzled. Wrong guy! OK... well it's an easy mistake to make; they all look the same to me. Which way is out?
Friday
This evening Gonzi/Malta throws me to the lions... again, by ordering me to appear on Xarabank. The topic is same-sex marriages. Though why I should be chosen to represent the government beats me; since I'm neither gay nor married to a man. On stage I am seated between a six foot four inch transsexual and a 120 kilo lesbian with a hairy top lip.
Mercifully I get largely ignored, since the tranny and the dyke spend almost the entire programme slagging off the token priest. Saved again.
Saturday
My mother-in-law has recently been upping the ante on two fronts. Firstly, on why her daughter, my bride of just over a year, is not yet bursting with child, and secondly, why we persist in living in a 300-year old farmhouse in a village. So today Angelika and I are frog-marched to Swieqi to appraise the villa Angelika's father owns.
The villa is OK, but with about as much character and charm as a Mintoffian government flat. And I say so to the mother-in-law. Later Angelika tells me: "Mummy was terribly upset and will have to go to bed for three days to recover from your rudeness." Good! That means I won't have to see the old cow for at least 72 hours. Hooray!