The minister walked tentatively in to the room. He felt alone, watched, exposed. He could feel many, many eyes staring and hoping. His gazed moved slowly around the room. So many optimistically buoyant members of the press all wanting one thing and one thing only.
The hot, dirty hands of the surplus had eluded the minister for so very long. On more than one occasion he had thought to himself, if only… If only we hadn’t given out all those tax cuts. We could’ve been…
He shook those thoughts from his mind.
“Good afternoon,” he announced in his gruff but sensual Dipton accent.
An audible gasp could be heard as the many gathered political editors as they tensed in collective anticipation.
“It is with great pleasure,” he continued, “that I can announce a small, modest but highly arousing budget surplus.”
Another audible gasp permeated the small conference room. Some of the gasps evolved into extended moans of pleasure, or gémissements d’extase, as the Undersecretary of Finance breathlessly noted.
The Prime Minister, fresh from a secret donor meeting in a nearby cupboard suddenly danced into the room offering everyone present a tax cut. The minister was aghast and incredulous. All his hard work, all his many hours massaging the figures, burning the late-night oil with his hard-working and dedicated team of treasury accountants had gone in a puff of prime-ministerial jibber-jabber.
“Have you seen my son’s latest Instagram,” continued the Prime Minister.
There were more groans from the press gallery – this time none were remotely pleasurable. Any highly charged atmosphere that remained in the room following the entry of the esteemed leader had now well and truly dissipated.
The minister had nothing further to say, so excusing himself from the podium, he quickly left the room returning to his palatial suburban home courtesy of a late-model diplomatic BMW to feed his chicken.