The Belgian Ambassador

The Belgian ambassador was sat in his study engaged in activities that can be accurately be said to consist merely of sitting in his study. He patiently & to all observers' eyes(admittedly there were no observers) contentedly waited, wondering if inspiration would strike the author of his existence & change this state of uninteresting passivity. However this outward picture of satisfied ease was the mask of a consummate actor & hid an inner dissatisfaction.

"Is this what great literature is made of?" he asked his worthy self. "Simply sitting, without even the company of a friendly other with whom one might engage in sparkling & cynical conversation? I am the Belgian ambassador, for goodness sake. My presence within the hallowed halls of the linguistic art form that is literature is generally an affair of deliciously heightened tensions; of an order of perfect balance tottering on the brink of dissolution into enticing, but perhaps lurid darknesses. Of alliteration & metaphor. Of infinitessimal shades of subtle transformations. And yet here I am, a man of import, refinement & intelligence, simply sat in his study, pointlessly. No phone calls, no elliptical manuscripts that have mysteriously come into my possession. Nothing. But what can I do?"
Nothing was of course the answer. And so we leave the Belgian ambassador sitting in his study.