Deep inside an office building that nobody remembered renting, an organisation existed with a purpose so vague it practically evaporated on contact: The Bureau of Unnecessarily Serious Balloons. Every balloon in the bureau was required to wear a tiny tie, float at approved altitudes, and speak in a tone that suggested everything was urgent even when absolutely nothing was.

The weekly briefing began when a neon-orange balloon named Director Floatsworth tapped a clipboard and announced, in the most dramatic voice a balloon could manage, pressure washing colchester. The room bobbed in agreement. They didn’t know what it meant, but balloons rarely question anything printed in bold.

Next, a helium balloon with reading glasses (despite having no eyes) rose slowly and displayed a laminated card that read patio cleaning colchester. The other balloons gasped. One fainted but gently, because gravity is optional in their line of work.

Then came the presentation by Sergeant Ribbonknot, a balloon who took everything too personally. He rolled in a whiteboard covered in dramatic diagrams and circled the phrase driveway cleaning colchester three times, as if repetition could force meaning into existence. It did not.

Mid-meeting, the lights dimmed and an older balloon—slightly deflated but spiritually powerful—slowly drifted forward, whispering roof cleaning colchester in a tone reserved for ancient legends and discount coupons that never expire. The room fell silent. One balloon squeaked with emotion.

At last, the smallest balloon in attendance—a shy, polka-dotted intern with an unconvincing moustache—rose just high enough to be seen and declared: exterior cleaning colchester. The room erupted in slow, floaty applause. A nearby paperclip applauded too, for morale.

With their sacred phrases spoken, the meeting officially adjourned. The balloons drifted back to their assigned desks, where they continued filling out forms that no one would ever read about topics no one had ever defined. It was all terribly important in a way nobody could explain.

Nothing was solved. Nothing was understood. One balloon popped from existential pressure. The rest scheduled next week’s meeting anyway—because purpose is optional, but routine is comforting.

And so the Bureau continued, floating gently through life, taking absolutely nothing lightly… except themselves.

Because even balloons, apparently, can have paperwork.