Wet behind the ears... Number the sixth

Glory be! Politically speaking, I have arrived. Today I am invited, personally, by Gonzi/Malta to attend a brainstorming session by senior ministers at Girgenti. So I become one with the party's hierarchy and my bride Angelika is so proud of me. A whole day at the epicentre of political power... wow!

Well nearly... It might just have been a tad more impressive if I'd actually been allowed into the room where the bigwigs were meeting. I must admit to being a weeny bit miffed at being told to stand outside the door and only occasionally allowed in to ferry sandwiches and coffee to the participants. But it's a start.

Monday

After more than nine months in my 'temporary' office under the stairs at the Ministry of Obfuscation - and with our proposed relocation to the former St Luke's postponed indefinitely, today the Perm Sec. suddenly informs me that my new office is ready. Hooray! He then accompanies me up... and onto the roof, pointing to the washroom and announcing: "Voila! Your new office." No thank you very much, I'd sooner suffer claustrophobia than vertigo.

Tuesday

AM: Crisis meeting with my minister. Since the last budget drastically cut our ministry's budget, he announces that we must all - himself included - make meaningful sacrifices. No more overtime and all expense accounts are to shrivel. For his part he informs me that, as from next month, he will forego his usual tins of assorted biscuits with his coffee. Henceforth he'll make do with just chocolate digestives and Jaffa cakes. My God! He really is economising.

Wednesday

Today I exist in a vacuum of trepidation. Since Angelika has been married for over 18 months with no sign yet of a son and heir, this morning the mother-in-law takes her to a gynae friend of hers, to ascertain whether Angelika is... ahem, fit to breed.

When my mobile rings at lunchtime, it is the kunjata with the news I'd been dreading. She confirms that Angelika is perfectly capable of having children. She adds: "So it must be your fault. I've made an appointment to get you checked out as well." No way Jose! Oh alright then. What time is the appointment? I'll clear my diary.

Thursday

Today I am entrusted with yet another top priority task by Gonzi/Malta personally. I am to head up a crack team (well OK, two pimply jobsworths from the Ministry of Environmental Cock-Ups) to go to Ta' Qali to collect as much rubbish as we can.

We are coordinated by a large, loud female from a PR firm called outthere.com. It is a fantastic photo-opportunity, but I draw the line at putting on a green bib reading: "Together some things are possible... maybe". And I also refuse categorically to pose picking up litter with a pointed stick. Who does she think I am?

Friday

Dead on time, the mother-in-law arrives at the ministry to ferry me in her car to the gynae. He gives me a thorough examination, then pronounces me sound in wind and limb and - more importantly, from the kunjata's point of view - perfectly capable of siring healthy children. Afterwards the smug old cow says: "I knew there was nothing wrong with Angelika, she's perfectly capable of conceiving. But she can't do so on her own. There has to be some input from you as well." I say nothing. Least said, soonest mended.

Saturday

For some reason I am roped in to play football for the parliamentarians against the journalists at Ta' Qali... on live TV! God knows why I was chosen; at St Edward's and university I was to football what Boċċa is to limbo dancing. So I jog around the field for 10 minutes, until, totally knackered, I feign an injury and get mercifully substituted.

Angelika watches from the grandstand and makes me very proud, since there's no doubt that she looks the perfect WAG. At least she's got the same expensive tastes and a deep and committed love of shopping.