The Department of Minimal Impact

When the Ministry of Administrative Enhancement was disbanded for being "too effective," its final act was to create a subsidiary agency: The Department of Minimal Impact. Its mission was clear: not to change the world, ideally not to be noticed at all, and under no circumstances to generate measurable outcomes.

This was considered a breakthrough in governance.

The Department was housed in a repurposed broom cupboard beneath the Ministry of Public Obfuscation, which itself occupied the ninth floor of a building with only eight. No one knew how to get to it, including the employees, who had to arrive by accident.

The Department's head was Mr. Colin Pays, a man so unremarkable that his ID badge frequently forgot who he was. He had once attempted to make a suggestion in a meeting and had been instantly promoted sideways into irrelevance.

His team consisted of three:

• Eva Vinta, Chief Officer of Insufficient Initiatives, who once spent nine years drafting a policy on mild encouragement.
• Douglas Splatter, Metrics Suppression Liaison, who prided himself on ensuring that every KPI stood for "Keep People Indifferent."
• And Janine, whose surname had been lost during an interdepartmental merger and whose role remained undefined, possibly even to her.

Their current project was the National Strategy for Ambiguous Progress. It was to be distributed on recycled parchment using carrier pigeons with a known sense of directionlessness.

The document read, in full:

"We acknowledge that things are happening. Some may continue. Others may not. A working group will be established to consider the potential ramifications of indecision. A second group will monitor the first, provided there is interest. Results, if any, will be disseminated at a time and location of uncertain relevance."

The press called it "boldly inert."

Their budget, previously rumoured to be £17.46 and half a Flake, was increased after a clerical error. They now had £400,000 to do very little, very thoroughly. Colin spent most of it on ergonomic swivel chairs that could only rotate counterclockwise, to promote balanced stagnation.

Public response was appropriately muted. A petition was launched to abolish the Department, but it failed after being incorrectly mailed to the Antarctic Survey. The penguins, when consulted, neither approved nor disapproved, which was deemed a diplomatic success.

Meanwhile, the team celebrated their latest initiative: National Don't-Get-Involved Week, a seven-day campaign urging citizens to mind their own business at a civic level. It was effective, participation reached an all-time high, primarily because no one heard about it.

During their annual review (conducted via passive-aggressive post-it notes), Colin was commended for his leadership in maintaining morale at a precisely average level. One note read:

"I neither dread nor look forward to coming in. Keep up the tolerable work."

In a rare burst of activity, the Department issued a formal apology for a memo accidentally causing mild clarity in an unrelated agency. A corrective subcommittee was formed, tasked with restoring acceptable levels of confusion.

Eventually, Colin was shortlisted for a government award, The Plaque of Plausible Contribution, but scheduling the ceremony proved impossible, as no one could determine where he was, including Colin. He had taken a sabbatical to a location he described as "somewhere between Here and Over There," with instructions to "keep things ticking at a low bar."

No one noticed he was gone.

And that, he later wrote in a modestly unsubmitted report, was the Department's greatest success to date.