Another breaking point

‘Is this your bread?’

‘Yes, but put it down.’

The Battle of The Bread

It had come to our attention in the highest offices of the Council of Modest Affairs than time, a local resource measured in uncertainty, was not being properly managed, and that well, it should. That intelligence was internal, and only contained in the offices, the corollary and the high ceilings, and there it was to stay, but outside the premises the situation was different, and issues such as time were easily dismissed for more imminent and less frivolous affairs. There was no money in the Oft-Center Bank, neither was there any jelly in the Frigidian Vaults. The Administer of The Despotic Treatment, a position that I have geared my entire career for in slow collision, had been vacant only two hours late at night, and was now occupied by an unsuitable candidate. A reunion between the parties was arranged at once. I left the place with a bundle of papers soaked with tears, after all, I’m my own ATDT. Back at the Council, I summoned most of the top-staff, sealed the room and showed them the intel still crude, while they made notes and looked at me wide-eyed and dispirited. I patted the paper on the wall, ‘Yeah, it couldn’t be worse. We are 7 years behind schedule.’ This news made everyone let out a collective gasp. The decision to spring into action was made, but we left the specifics for another meeting, and ‘yes, we will do something!’ was the general consensus. We all moved to the other room, to eat doughnuts.

One day, on my way to my cubicle, I made a wrong turn and found a hall with cabinets to the sides, and in revising a couple I found out the Private Record Management had hid another meeting from about 5 months ago, which I had no memory of. In fact, there were meetings like the one I had had about once every 6 months, but all of the written copy was here. I visited the Administer and demanded an explanation, ‘This comes from the PRM’s Corner of Waste, any idea why?’ My superior didn’t lift her face from her papers. ‘Every department is responsable for their own transcripts. You are busy, but nothing happens. It seems that your own staff prioritises what is being done, not what is important. Look at what you have in your internal publications.’ The logbook of what we were doing was filled with mind-numbing content, not substance. Some committees were just dedicated to make each others laugh, others would watch videos of things they had never cooked. The committee of books had not read one in a year, but had bought 10. It was all a mess. There was no space for the things we were hired for.

I confronted my peers, and they were completely crushed. The files of all the possible solutions we had come up through the years were recovered, piling up to the ceiling, and most had been implemented. ‘Oh, no.’ I slammed the door when I left and a letter fell down from the big red sign. Behind the letters there had been a big smudge, and in taking them all I revealed a hastily painted old sign, ‘War Room.’

I ran, I passed many other’s and I almost knocked someone’s coffee to the floor. By the doughnuts, I found the Brigadier, tall and rotund, comically munching a donut, he looked at me mildly curious. ‘Do you remember actually having done something last time?’ He paused, and swallowed, ‘oh, yes, yes.’ And bit the doughnut again. I wondered if he actually did. Knowing I had one, I went and fetch another good member of the council, he was whimpering, scared of something unspecific, and I had to drag him to his senses. ‘The weather is all fine. Ripe for another try.’ He stood up gravely in his robe, with angry, resolute eyebrows. I went about getting everyone together, I provided them with appropriate uniforms, and instructions, they all wasted no time. They all looked strangely revigorated. Operations were into place. And we were at it all over again.

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