The Committee For Unnecessary Things

The boardroom at the College of Thought Experiments smelled of furniture polish and Yorkshire tea. The three men in the room all wore suits and facial expressions suggesting they meant business. 

Quite what business was a matter of some debate. The three men in the meeting were as follows:

• Professor John Penhaligon, an academic of considerable repute. 
• Mr Arthur Finch, a Fleet Street newspaper editor from the 1950s
• Mr Alfred Rhymer, a poet and storyteller from an uncertain timeline, but with an Anglo-Saxon lineage. 

The first item on the agenda was whether there ought to be an agenda. Arthur had brought a second one, just in case. Although it wasn’t in a case. 

—We must begin by establishing the agenda for these meetings. And whether they are necessary, said Arthur. 

—I agree. Our time is too precarious to be frittered away with tidal gossip, said Professor Penhaligon. 

Alfred Rhymer stared at the professor for a long moment. And shook his head. 

—Dear professor, your linguistic affectations are really quite strange, aren’t they? 

—My linguistic affectations? Why thank you. I am very close to the things I say. I’m affectionate to them for sure. Furthermore, I’m here and the words I say are right there. 

The professor waved a hand in front of his face. 

—Look, you buggers! We need to decide if this meeting and any subsequent meetings, are necessary. 

The professor’s brow creased in a manner that no brow would usually crease. Unless he had a steam iron. That would solve the problem. 

—Arthur? I believe you may have misunderstood the title of this article. Andy has written “The Committee For Unnecessary Things” not “The Committee for Unnecessary Meetings”. 

—What? 

—I believe, Arthur, the professor has quite rightly corrected your previous statement, said Alfred. 

—Aye, right. But I’m not nitpicking . . . wait, what the hell has Andy got to do with this? 

The professor pointed up at the ceiling. 

—He is the author of this article we are in. 

—No, he is having a nap. It’s Friday evening. 

—May I interject? We must focus on the matter in hand. Should we discuss the unnecessary things we have attended this meeting to discuss? Said Alfred.

He indicated the teaspoon lying next to his mug. There was a silence of considerable professional quality.

—Ah, the simple teaspoon. A wonderfully necessary device! Declared the professor. 

—Not if yer take yer tea with no sugar, and it is brewed properly, said Arthur. 

Alfred considered the teaspoon for another long moment. There is a theory that poets and storytellers collect long moments as precious artefacts, especially on Tuesdays. 

—I take two sugars and like to stir my tea well, said Alfred. 

—Excellent. Then we have established that the pea tune is in fact, a necessary thing, and we must move on to the next item on the agenda, said the professor. 

Arthur rolled his eyes. He didn’t have the dice-embedded ones. So, no numbers came up. 

—This is a shit meeting. What do we do now?

—That is precisely the sort of question we were hoping to avoid, said Alfred. 

—Meeting adjourned, said Arthur.