Cliffs and Slopes

My fingers tremble on the doorknob as I force myself to open it gently, though every instinct screams to burst in.

The sound still cracks through the office like a gunshot.

The Minister’s shoulders stiffen before he turns, and I catch the flash of irritation in his eyes, the muscle working in his jaw.

“Minister,” I manage, my voice barely above a whisper, “the Deputy Secretary insists on speaking with you immediately.”

The word ‘immediately’ hangs between us like a threat.

“Bring him in.” The Minister’s words are clipped and annoyed.

I step aside as the Deputy Secretary strides past me. His usually immaculate tie is slightly askew – the only outward sign of his agitation.

“Minister,” he says, each syllable precise as a knife strike, “we need to discuss the infrastructure investment briefing. Your political advisors haven’t merely edited our advice. They’ve gutted it.”

“My office has streamlined a verbose briefing. That’s all.” the Minister says, voice low but charged.

I close the door between the Minister’s private and main offices.

The Deputy Secretary remains standing; his posture is perfectly straight – a stance cultivated through three decades of public service. “Minister, with respect, your political advisors didn’t streamline the briefing. They excised our core analysis of fiscal and legal risks. The very essence of our free and frank advice.”

“Analysis?” The Minister’s laugh is sharp. “Three pages of bureaucratic handwringing about theoretical downsides that will never materialise. My staff made it actionable.”

“Made it palatable, you mean?” The Deputy Secretary’s voice remains steady, but his fingers tightened perceptibly on his folder.

“Minister, this isn’t about prose style. Your advisors removed our explicit warning about structural deficit risks. That’s not their role.”

“Their role is to help me govern effectively,” the Minister retorted, stepping forward. “Not to drown in doomsaying from risk-averse bureaucrats.”

“Then govern with full information,” the Deputy Secretary says quietly, his stance softening. “Even when it’s uncomfortable information, and especially then. If this altered briefing goes forward as the department’s official advice, I will need to formally register my concern with the Prime Minister’s Chief Policy Advisor.”

The Minister’s face flushes. “That’s a nuclear option. Think very carefully about deploying it.”

“I have,” the Deputy Secretary responds, meeting his gaze. “Just as I hope you’ll think carefully about what it means when political staff start filtering the professional advice you receive. This isn’t about individual egos but the system’s integrity. It is about your colleagues having the best advice and information we can offer to inform their decision-making.”

A heavy silence fills the office. It hangs not just on the tension between two men but also on the friction points between political imperative and institutional duty, between short-term expediency and long-term democratic resilience.

“Put it in writing, then,” the Minister finally says, returning to his desk. He adds, defeatedly,”Just remember—you’re supposed to be helping me succeed, not documenting my failures.”

“With respect, Minister,” the Deputy Secretary replies, moving towards the door and wondering if he has gone too far, “Sometimes helping you succeed means ensuring you know exactly where the cliffs are, even if your staff would prefer to paint them as gentle slopes.”

As I walk the Deputy Secretary back to his office, I reflect on how this confrontation embodies the essence of democratic tension that scholars have long grappled with. The heated exchange wasn’t just about a modified briefing—it was the physical manifestation of what theorists call the ‘agonistic dimension’ of democratic governance, playing out in real time beneath the fluorescent lights in the Beehive.

The theoretical underpinnings of free and frank advice in democratic governance rest at the intersection of institutional theory, democratic theory, public policy, and public administration.

While scholars have long examined the relationship between elected officials and permanent bureaucracies, the agonistic dimension of this relationship remains under-theorised and has a thin empirical base.

In many ways, the Deputy Secretary’s stance and the Minister’s resistance exemplify what my Phd thesis is revealing: that the tensions inherent in ministerial-official relationships, far from being problematic, constitute a vital democratic dynamic that enhances governance.

The confrontation over the altered briefing perfectly illustrates how free and frank advice operates within broader democratic structures. When the Deputy Secretary threatened to register his concern formally, he wasn’t just following procedure—he was engaging in what political theorists would recognise as the productive friction necessary for democratic deliberation and policy refinement.

*Please note that this post is fictional. The stories shared are narratives used in workshops on free and frank advice and are drawn from my PhD research.