Lundi

Two days ago, le baby avec Caesarean section. Yesterday, le skydiving.

“I wish to make it plain,” shouted the instructor, as we approached terminal velocity 2000m above the Dordogne, “that I am not the father of your child.”

“But Monsieur!” I hollered, in return. “We have never even met before this very day! Who could think otherwise?”

“All the same,” screamed the instructor. “I shall be issuing a statement. Just to be clear.”

And, alors, as I continued to plummet, infuriatingly slowly, towards the ground, I reflected on the many men who have been accused of being the father of my baby. Some have issued denials, others not. My private life is complicated. Albeit fun.

Between pulling the parachute cord and reaching the ground, I conducted some official paperwork, relating to my role as Justice Minister of France. And then a quick commando roll, a jog to the limousine, and a ride back to the hospital to see baby Zohra. According to the nurse, she was not yet walking. And nor is she today. I hope she is not an indolent child.

Mardi

Tomorrow I shall be returning to work. Possibly on Rollerblades. Alors, I have called my private secretary, to ensure that he is prepared. “Seriously?” he says. “But you've just had a baby.”

“Pregnancy is not a disease,” I tell him, and add that I shall see him at 6am. My private secretary coughs. “You have not heard?” he says. “I have the broken leg. As a result of my vacances de ski. I have not moved from my bed, other than to issue a denial that I am the father of your baby. I shall not be there.”

“A broken leg is not a disease, either,” I tell him, firmly.

“So?” says my private secretary.

Mercredi

From the hospital to a Cabinet meeting with President Sarkozy, whose wife hates me, and no wonder, the flashy bitch.

“Rachida!” says the President, with some surprise. “Beaucoup de congratulations! Welcome back, and may I say, and I believe on behalf of the entire Cabinet, it's not mine.”

“Bien sûr I am back!” I tell him. “For it is only a baby. Would you like me to do some competitive press-ups?”

“That will not be necessary,” says the President.

“An arm wrestle?” I ask.

“Encore, no,” says the President.

“A thumb war? With your tiny, tiny thumbs?”

“Alors,” says the President, after a short pause. “A thumb war it is.”

Jeudi

I hope I have not hampered my career prospects by defeating the President in a thumb war. But I must show all of France that a woman is as strong as any man. Especially un very petit one, avec les very petit thumbs.

My private secretary calls, to let me know that he tried to come in yesterday but fell on the way into his car and now has a bone sticking out of the flesh of his thigh.

“A bone sticking out of your leg is also not a disease,” I point out. My private secretary has now resigned.

Nonetheless, it is good to be back at work. Naturellement, I find the widespread speculation as to the identity of my baby's father to be deeply offensive. My silence shall be absolute, now and for ever.

Although Johnny Depp lives in Paris. Je suis a bit annoyed that nobody has thought of that.

Vendredi

My sources at the Vatican inform me that Pope Benedict XVI is close to issuing a denial over the paternity of my child. This would be a great honour. Today, however, I am holding interviews for a new private secretary. I do have one particular leading candidate in mind.

“You are very young,” I tell her, “but you come from a good family. I am confident that you shall rise to this challenge and be capable of running the administration of the entire French legal system dans une fortnight. Avez vous any questions?”

“Gurgle,” says the leading candidate. “Waaaah. Waaaah.”

This is deeply unsatisfactory. Clearly she takes after her father.

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