The body language. The hushed voice. The eyes, sliding aside, to check nobody’s around. “Our instructions, you understand. Because of next year’s presidential election…”

Instructions from on high, you see. We, civil servants, must insure that never the twain shall meet – nitro, under wrap in one administration, glycerin in another. Heavy, wet blankets provided and padded walls too. Delay, put off, keep quiet, all noses to the grindstone, what you don’t acknowledge doesn’t exist.

I mean, yes, of course, those people sleeping in the bushes or on the sidewalk exist. But it’s their fault if they’re here. Nobody invited them. And my administration says our priority goes to catching up in our record keeping. Performance charts since the last re-structuring  of inter-office responsibilities. Files processed. The positives since the last budget downsizing. Data – how else can we show results?

Please don’t tell anyone I told you the code word is Temporize. We’ll all get into a lot of trouble, and so will you. Of course, I’d love to help you but heaven helps those who help themselves. Show me at least one of those street people saving three local girls from drowning. Or snatching away the Préfet’s dog from a raging inferno, and I might swing a temporary work permit for him. Just don’t mention my name in public. And please: don’t talk to me about all those others littering our streets like lumps. You say they’ve had the will beaten out of them. I’ll keep my opinions to myself, and repeat: My instructions are to ignore them.

Oh, good luck by the way. Really. But what can I say? Don Quixote battled wind mills and you like lost causes. To each his own, it’s a free country. You must excuse me now, I’m chairing an important inter-departmental meeting in less than five minutes. I don’t have a moment to myself anymore.