The fat man sat in his sumptuous chair taking long puffs on his Havana cigar between sipping a glass of very old Scottish Whiskey.
Comfort was very important to the Charity Minister, so he closed his eyes and thought about how he could increase his bank balance. The meagre salary as a member of parliament was simply not enough for his expensive tastes.
But in a flash, his self-satisfying grin was wiped away as his aide rushed to his side holding a large folder in her hands.
She reminded the politician of his appointments for that day, which included meeting some of the NHS workers who were struggling to cope with so many patients needing treatment. The fat man waved his hand in the air, ushering her away.
Undeterred, she inhaled deeply and wondered how far she could go without being sacked from the job she loved. In for a penny she thought as she pointed to the diary, insisting her boss read the letters and messages of those doing their best on limited budgets.
There were heartbreaking stories from those who looked after the needy and the number of men, women, and children with mental health issues were huge and rising. All of them required the fat man’s help so she sent daggers through her eyes hoping some would hit the target.
“You win, Louise, but who is top of the list for helping us poorly paid members of parliament?”
Lousie seethed internally with anger yet her training immediately kicked in. She thrust the list of potential donors under the Minister’s nose, clenched her fists, and awaited his decision, for she wanted no part in his greed when so many of his constituents needed help.
He took another sip of whiskey and closed his eyes for several minutes. With his breathing so slow, Louise thought her boss had fallen asleep.
“But which one shall I choose?” He said, waving his hands vaguely in the air. “How silly of me to dilly-dally when the answer is so simple. Clearly, it’s the one that pays the most, as charity always begins at home doesn’t it? What say you, Louise?”