It is a truth universally acknowledged that certain ladies are born with a passion for the theatrical, even when the stage is merely a patch of dusty soil. Pray, allow me to introduce you to a most peculiar scene from the town of Nizhnevartovsk, where a certain Madame Zyablistkaya, the Vice-Chairwoman of the Duma, decided that a garden chore required the attire of a grand salon.

Imagine, if you will, the sight: a lady venturing forth to water the shrubs, not in the sensible boots and rough aprons of a diligent gardener, but in a lace gown of an audaciously short length, completed by high-heeled shoes that would make a debutante blush. One cannot help but admire the courage—or perhaps the profound delusion—of a woman who believes that watering a sapling is a suitable occasion for a visit to the dressmaker.

Naturally, the townspeople, those delightful critics of all things bourgeois, were not blind to this masquerade. One gentleman, Mr. Ramanov, observed with a sharp tongue that the Madame seemed dressed for a wedding feast rather than a municipal duty. He noted, with a touch of irony, that while the common folk toil in sandals and shorts, our dear Deputy appears as though she were strolling through a royal gallery.

Another lady of the community, Miss Yarina, expressed her bewilderment at such a display of 'high-heeled horticulture.' She pointed out that in the seventh district, the citizens water their greenery with bare feet and sneakers, accompanied by deputies who do not consider their footwear a matter of public record. When the Vice-Chairwoman attempted to deflect this by mentioning a colleague, Mr. Mukhin, who also shares his deeds, she found that the public distinguishes quite clearly between a genuine Saturday cleanup and a carefully staged performance for the gallery.

When questioned by one Mr. Salikhov regarding this appetite for the camera, the Madame pleaded that she was merely 'informing' the public of her labors, claiming her husband had captured the images. It is a charming fiction, is it not? To suggest that a public social media profile is merely a private family album.

Of course, there were those who rushed to her defense. A certain Mr. Khomicevich proclaimed her a saint of the city. However, upon closer inspection, this gallant defender possesses neither a photograph nor a single publication on his profile, save for a friendship with the Deputy herself. A ghost in the machine, acting as a cheerleader for a lady in lace—truly, the modern age of politics is a comedy of the most exquisite variety.