"Yes, yes, hang on..." rustling amongst papers, lifting up files and discovering the telephone underneath.

"Yes, somewhere here I have a business card," says the ministerial press attache, who knows as well as I do that no such card exists.

"Oh," he looks at me with charmingly forlorn eyes, turning his back on the desk. "C'est fini."

This one is different. He had a card, which he sat down underneath the image of Jesus to write upon, and gave me his home phone number and postal address too.