The Department of Unnecessary Rules

I have always believed that civilization rests upon rules nobody has thought to write down.

The important ones are generally available in public libraries. They concern taxation, property, the acceptable distance between buildings, and the circumstances under which one may legally acquire a goat.

The others are more difficult to locate.

For example, a man may spend thirty years believing that the left side of the bed belongs to him, only to discover that his claim has been invalidated by the arrival of someone who sleeps better near the window.

There is no appeals procedure.

I became interested in such matters after discovering that I had developed an extensive collection of regulations without ever formally establishing a department to administer them.

This seemed irresponsible.

I therefore founded the Department of Unnecessary Rules.

Its headquarters occupied the smaller of two drawers in my writing desk. The larger drawer contained unpaid bills, obsolete warranties, and a fountain pen that had ceased functioning during an argument about literature.

I appointed myself director.

There were no objections.

My first task was classification.

Some rules proved straightforward. Never begin an important conversation while someone is holding a hot beverage. Never ask a person whether they are asleep. Never explain a joke to someone who has already decided not to laugh.

Others required further investigation.

Why must a particular cup be used for morning coffee? Why does one person always walk on the street side of the pavement? Why is the last biscuit in a packet sometimes left untouched for three days, despite repeated declarations that nobody wants it?

I submitted these questions to the appropriate authorities.

The appropriate authorities were unavailable.

I proceeded independently.

After six months, the Department had identified three principal categories.

The first consisted of rules designed to prevent minor catastrophes. These included prohibitions against discussing finances before breakfast, rearranging another person's books, and using the expression calm down under any circumstances.

The second category concerned territorial arrangements.

A chair might belong to someone who had not occupied it for years. A shelf might remain empty because its former contents had been removed during an argument. A particular side of the sofa could acquire the status of an independent republic, complete with disputed borders and occasional military incursions.

The third category resisted classification.

These were rules whose practical purpose could not be established.

They included making two cups of tea when only one person was thirsty. Leaving a light on in the hallway. Buying a newspaper that nobody intended to read.

I initially recommended their abolition.

The Department was committed to efficiency.

Unfortunately, efficiency proved unpopular.

My first serious administrative difficulty arose when I attempted to eliminate the practice of sending messages containing no information.

Have you arrived?

Yes.

Good.

Three separate communications, consuming electricity, attention, and several seconds of human life.

The Department calculated that the exchange could be replaced by silence without any measurable loss of information.

The proposal was rejected.

I requested an explanation.

None was provided that satisfied our standards.

The Department therefore classified the practice as an unresolved anomaly and continued its work.

Over time, I discovered that unnecessary rules were rarely announced. They emerged quietly, usually without consultation, and became binding through repetition.

Someone always took the burnt piece of toast.

Someone remembered which flowers another person disliked.

Someone learned that a certain silence required conversation, while another required the immediate withdrawal of all conversational personnel.

These arrangements were astonishingly precise.

They were also subject to change without notice.

A person who had spent years insisting that birthdays were meaningless could suddenly become offended when nobody remembered one. Someone who claimed to dislike surprises might be disappointed by the absence of a surprise they had explicitly forbidden.

I proposed that all personal regulations be submitted in writing, with amendments distributed at least forty-eight hours before implementation.

Nobody supported the proposal.

I began to suspect that the Department was losing authority.

The decisive incident concerned an umbrella.

For several years, I had known a woman who insisted upon carrying an umbrella whenever the forecast mentioned even the theoretical possibility of rain.

I considered this excessive.

Weather forecasts, I explained, were probabilistic instruments. The presence of a cloud on a screen did not constitute evidence of an approaching catastrophe.

She listened politely.

Then she packed the umbrella.

On occasions when we walked together, she invariably offered me the larger portion of its protection.

I objected on grounds of geometry.

She ignored me.

Eventually, we developed an arrangement. She carried the umbrella. I complained about the umbrella. When it rained, I held it because she was shorter and had an unfortunate tendency to direct the accumulated water onto my shoulder.

The arrangement was never discussed.

It continued for years.

Then, one afternoon, we stopped walking together.

There was no dramatic farewell. No final argument. The circumstances were ordinary enough to escape classification.

For several weeks, I continued to check the weather before leaving home.

One morning, the forecast announced rain.

I opened the cupboard and discovered that I owned three umbrellas.

I took none of them.

Halfway down the street, it began to rain.

I stood beneath the entrance of a closed pharmacy, watching people hurry past with their various arrangements for remaining dry.

A couple approached beneath a small blue umbrella. The man was considerably taller than his companion and had positioned the umbrella so badly that her left shoulder was entirely exposed.

She took it from him, adjusted the angle, and handed it back.

He said something.

She laughed.

The Department immediately identified seventeen violations of basic umbrella procedure.

I watched them disappear around the corner.

That evening, I returned to headquarters.

I opened the smaller drawer and reviewed the regulations accumulated during my years of service.

Many were absurd.

Several were contradictory.

Almost none had prevented the catastrophes they were supposedly designed to prevent.

I considered closing the Department.

Instead, I introduced a fourth category.

Its title was provisional.

I wrote it on a small piece of paper and placed it beneath the others.

Rules that cease to be unnecessary when nobody follows them.

The following morning, I checked the forecast.

There was no rain expected.

I took an umbrella anyway.