“Pity is often feeling our own sufferings in those of others, a shrewd precaution against misfortunes that may befall us. We give help to others so that they have to do the same for us on similar occasions, and these kindnesses we do them are, to put it plainly, gifts we bestow on ourselves in advance.”- La Rouchefoucauld, Maxim No. 264

The moment I finished buttoning my suit coat, dozens of Diplomatic Protection Group officers rushed to surround me; the twenty-foot walk from my front door to 10 Downing Street grew longer and more complex every day. The door swung open and a rush of frigid air invaded my face and the roar of the relentless press tested my sanity. The officers fought the press as I strode forward, feigning indifference to the hundreds of hounds calling my name. I heard several questions that merited a response, but the prime minister’s policy was clear: there was to be no communication with the press concerning the Syria Affair. For that matter, as far as the British government was concerned, no Syria Affair even officially existed. The familiar black door entering my periphery awoke me from my ruminations, and I reached out to open it. As I found myself scratching at nothing but air, the door swung open to admit me. The door officer nodded to me, and motioned for me to enter. I did so, and smiled to myself. The lack of a doorknob on the entrance to 10 Downing Street was one of the many quirks of Her Majesty’s Government that I had yet to adjust to.

When I entered the No. 10 meeting room, I was greeted by the prime minister, Sir Lloyd Cavendish, and the Foreign Secretary, Margaret Simon.
“‘Ello, James,” boomed the prime minister. I nodded and took a seat next to Simon.
“Roger isn’t here yet, but I don’t suppose that should keep us much,” she giggled. Roger Morton, the Home Secretary, was not what most Britons would consider their ideal representation. Cavendish simply retained him from the previous administration to appease the Worcestershire constituency whose support he could not afford to lose.
“All right then, let’s begin,” said Cavendish, as he shifted to a more formal posture. He pushed a button on his phone. “Dani, could you tell the White House we’re ready please?”
“Is Vance going to be in on this?” inquired Simon, referring to Robert Vance, the American Secretary of State.
“As I understand it,” came the reply. At the same time, the prime minister’s phone beeped. “Here we go, boys.” Simon shot him a nasty glare; she was quite fond of communicating her emotions through facial expressions.
“Mr. President! I’m so glad you could join us today,” Cavendish said, emphasizing his accent and winking at me.
“As am I, Lloyd. Who all is in on this?” came the reply from President Stanley Mukakis, 4000 miles away.