Arbuthnot Ping, Vice Junior Under Secretary Seconded to the Junior Junior Under Commissioner for the Department of Judicial, Civil and International Correspondence Filing, scurried down the white marble corridor, a sheafs of official looking synth-paper tucked under one arm.
As a motorized personal office scooter darted out of one corrider, a cacophany of whistles and bells allegedly signalling the driver was o his way to an important meeting (funny how these meetings always seem to be around lunch time, he thought), and almost knocked him flying, Arbuthnot reflected that it hadn't been the easiest couple of days.
Three days ago, A Ping - married, father of two, owner of one class 3 robotic transport horse (the envy of all his neighbours but none of his friends or family who either all had better jobs, or nebulous connections with shifty characters who could provide things cheap) - had held the position of Cabinet Secretary in the office of Archive Filing. For clarity that will soon become relevant, the "Cabinet" in his job title actually referred to a filing cabinet, rather than that of the faux-Governement. Alas due to poor communication, impenetrable bureaucracy and, ultimately, poor filing, Arbuthnot was soon promoted to a position that was far beyond his capabilities. With previously unheard of alacrity, the powers that be soon realised their mistake and dropped Ping back down to the bottom (well not quite, his old job having been given to an elderly tea lady, they were forced to a departmental reshuffle which, for reason unclear at present, resulted in homicide being legalised for a chaotic half hour on a wet Tuesday afternoon).
So, back to the now, Ping scurries, synth-papers in hand, trying to track down someone to put their official stamp on the "International Statement". It would have been much easier on one of the office computers, but they were all currently networked together attempting to run through the expense accounts of several Senior Junior Ministers. So far there had been three fires and one rogue AI outbreak that reversed the water flow in the ground floor women's toilets.
Arriving at a large, polished brass door, Ping knocks, is ushered in, asked about the weather, whether he likes weather, and why women wither in the sun if left for too long (it being past 12 o'clock the official has already had several generous pourings of a green, viscous brew known colloquially as Guk!). Finally signed and sealed, Ping is ready to transmit the message to the other inhabitants of Mongo.
The Lord High Junior Secretary Overseeing Official Declarations Concerning State Visits, Alien Invasions, Fishing Rights and Ocelots wrote:We'll see you there.
Somehow, thinks Arbuthnot, that didn't really seem worth it.
