King Albert of the Belgians called me up last night. He wanted to ask me whether I'd be his new formateur.
"Haven't you got any Belgians left to ask?" I said.
"No." he said. "I've asked everyone in politics, and none of them think they can do it. So then I asked Tintin, who was too busy clubbing, and Poirot, who pointed out he was fictional, and Magritte said he was too busy being dead, so then I went and knocked on Jacques Brel's grave but he wasn't in. And then the wife said she'd met you in the Berlaymont and was impressed by your nervous grin. Please please please, I'm DESPERATE."
I considered the task. From the little I understand of Belgian politics, it seems to involve herding cats into a shower cabinet while the shower is on.
"Sorry, your Maj" I said. "I haven't got time. I've got to recatalogue my sock drawer."
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