Sugar Beets Rule!

I scheduled the Annual Board meeting of Strunsky Sugarbeets Inc. in Paris this year, an act which enabled a neat weekend with the Comte DeRienville at his chateau near Versailles. All went well, and at the pool, my Cardin bikini was a hit. Still, the Compte was a wee bit distracted. His superiors had ordered that he develop some sort of ring fence around President Sarkozy, in order to shield him from the L'Oreal mess. That's a complicated affair, and not really worth the time of my treasured readers. That is, you.

I did enquire why Sarkozy couldn't do what his Italian counterpart would do in similar circumstances. I mean, Berlusconi would just enact a law making what was at issue legal, and presto, all solved! No flies on old Silvio.

"C'est non possible," the Compte sniffed. "Nous sommes... francais."

At which point I was going to shout "J'accuse!" but thought better of it. No point in engaging in a discussion that would intrude on, shall we say, other activities of a pleasurable nature. As the Irish adage goes, 'Many a man's tongue broke his nose.'

So off to the Paris Board meeting at the Georges Cinq. My Ukrainian manager Bohdan greeted me, and in the meeting room, I renewed acquaintance with the other representatives of the enterprise. Soon I was immersed in various and sundry items of a sugar beet nature.

I will not bore the reader in detailing all that occurred, but one or two things are worthy of mention. Beet sugar has moved from being 25% of the world's sugar to 30% -- a considerable gain. The East Anglia fuel project involving the production of biobutanol was coming along nicely, and German Zuckerruben-Sirup was becoming ever more popular. All in all, profits were up roughly 35%, no small feat in the current world economy. Thus I argued for, and got, healthy raises for the workers who actually tended the beets themselves.

No bonuses for the managers, though -- they receive handsome wages as well as stock options.

As the meeting broke up, Bohdan leaned over and said, "There's a military guy outside who wishes a word."

"Well, let's see what it's all about."

I left the room, and encountered two people. One was of Oriental persuasion, short in stature, and sporting a uniform festooned with various medals and medallions. The other was a slender female, also Oriental, poured into a leather mini-skirt and cashmere top and wearing what looked to be Louboutin stilettos.

"I am General Phan," the man said, ignoring the woman by his side. "My government would be interested in a sugar beet enterprise, a joint venture, if you will."

"And which government would that be?' I asked, although the penny was beginning to drop.

"Myanmar," he replied.

"I smiled sweetly at him. "You mean, of course, Burma. And I would be happy to begin a negotiation. When might I meet with Miss Aung San Suu Kyi?"

"She is not the government," he said tersely.

"Oh, but she is," I said. "Very definitely. Won the election handily, and has the support of most of the Burmese populace. Were it not for a vicious group of thugs headed up by that creep Than Shwe --"

He abruptly turned and left, dragging the hapless girl with him.

Well, you can't win them all. Particularly when the shit hits the Phan.

(Sorry about that).