Wet behind the ears... Number the eighth...

Sunday:
My bride Angelika and I are invited to lunch by the party's oldest and longest serving MP. Although no longer a minister, he still has extensive knowledge of ministerial duties and I intend to pick his brain on the ins and outs of high office.

After a pleasant meal of soup, pasta and roast sweetbreads, he and I retire to his study, where he gives me some advice on my ministerial career. He says: "Always look busy and concerned. Never smile on duty; no constituent trusts a comedian... and above all, promise the earth but - do absolutely nothing. That way you never rock the political boat and your civil servants will love you."

Sound advice, I think, eh.

Monday:
An article in the gutter (opposition) press today attacks me mercilessly and claims I owe my position in the government to the influence of my father alone.

This is a complete lie! I certainly do not owe my exalted government post to Pa alone. I owe it to him... plus my grandfather, four uncles and my second cousin Karmnu. How dare they?!

Tuesday:
I put in yet another written request to the permanent sec at my ministry, to be moved from my cupboard under the stairs to an office more fitting to the Parliamentary Secretary For Fooling Some Of The People Some Of The Time. However, this time, I detect a glimmer of hope. At least, he actually takes the trouble to read it... before screwing it up and tossing it into the wastepaper basket. Progress or what?

Wednesday:
For some time, Angelika has been agitating for us to acquire a pied à terre in Gozo. She is keen on getting something that looks rustic... but comes with all mod cons. So today I take a day off to accompany her on a tour of vacant properties in our sister island.

The estate agent shows us some beautiful villas and farmhouses - and although they all contain the obligatory pool, Jacuzzi and sauna... there seems to be nothing under half a million euros. Mercifully, Angelika doesn't care for any of the properties we're shown, which in one way is a blessing. However, it's not because they are all grossly over-priced, but, bizarrely, because none of them came with a built-in helipad! I know my dear wife has expensive taste, but for God's sake... a helipad!

Thursday:
I am getting just a tad fed up. From what I can see, my minister seems to hog all the decent jobs, while I am left to feed off any political scraps he chooses to toss my way.

He gets all the high profile photo ops, while my press conferences are usually attended by just one bored photographer from The Independence and some leering tart from the social pages of Circular Sunday. So this morning I confront him and tell him bluntly: "Onorevolli, it would appear that you don't rate my abilities very highly." He inhales deeply and replies: "Oh I wouldn't say that." To which I quickly retort: "Oh, why not?" He smirks: "No need; you already said it for me." Uh?

Friday:
This morning, I am telephoned by the party's general sec who enquires whether I am sick. No; so he goes on to ask why I didn't respond to his e-mail asking me to turn up to a meeting of all parliamentary secretaries to slag off a prominent opposition politician. I respond that I didn't turn up because I never received his e-mail. And... knowing him, he probably sent it to the same prominent opposition politician by mistake.

Saturday:
This evening I decide to broaden Angelika's cultural awareness by taking her to the Manoel Theatre to experience a classical concert. But, as I had feared, at the last moment she feigns a headache so I have to go to the concert alone. I really must make a more determined effort to educate my darling wife culturally. It is absolutely essential for the spouse of an aspiring politician to learn to appreciate the finer things in life. But when I tell her so, she insists that she is already extremely culturally aware. Sorry pupa, but I really don't equate a deep and dedicated appreciation of shopping with Shostakovich.