In a development so dripping with diplomatic absurdity it could only be real, the ghost of a US-Iran nuclear deal is to be resurrected this Sunday. Or perhaps not. Because in this theatre of the preposterous, even the date of signature is negotiable.
Whitehall sources, those ever-reliable purveyors of half-truths and full befuddlement, whisper that a parchment of peace is ready to be inked. But Tehran, bless their cynical socks, have already cast a fog of doubt thick enough to obscure the entire Persian Gulf. The mullahs are playing hard to get, possibly because they've read the small print and realised the deal includes a clause requiring them to renounce deliciously sarcastic press releases.
Meanwhile, in Washington, the deal's architects are frantically reassuring each other that this is the one, the final push, the last dance of the diplomatic waltz. But let's be honest: this isn't a waltz. It's a drunken mosh pit at a conference of nihilist philosophers.
The deal, if it exists, is likely a Rube Goldberg contraption held together with goodwill and desperation. And Sunday? Mark your calendars with a pencil because you'll probably need to erase it.
This is politics, people, where certainty is a luxury and promises are just tomorrow's punchlines.
