Apples, pears and bananas are for the taking next to today's newspapers, all of which talk of a recent scandal in a small town south of Antwerp. It has come to light that a woman had for many years severely maltreated her young foster child. Police had even been contacted by concerned neighbours more than once. The day before, a similar story had also been in the papers.

"That's why I'm late," Vandeurzen apologises, 45 minutes later. He was held up at the presentation of the 2010 annual report on youth welfare. Its conclusion was that more and more children in Flanders are in need of special care. "Last year, there was almost no press at all," he says. But this year, they wouldn't let him go.

Is Flemish welfare in such a dire state? "No, I think it is at a reasonable level," he replies, "but it can do better. We've been working on a new law that should harmonise and simplify things. It now seems that we're taking action after the damage has been done, but we didn't need these incidents to convince us of the fact that our policy toward foster parenting needs improvement."

Vandeurzen's job title can be summarised as the minister for the sick and the weak - a group in society that is growing fast, he says. "Not only are there more and more old people, we also recognise ever more disorders as being a disability." These new and modern times of increasing individualisation and the dilution of the family don't help either, he says. "There is less micro-solidarity these days. People increasingly call upon the state for help."

Enough to do then. "We're very busy," Vandeurzen affirms. "We're pushing through some big reforms in almost every policy area. The whole concept of care is moving from a top-down to a more demand-driven organisation."

Care on demand, that seems to be the new motto. "We're confronted with social evolutions that demand a reorganisation," he says. "There's no shortage of things to do."

Vandeurzen, 53, kind of rolled into politics, like so many of his generation and political colour, after an engaging youth in the scouting movement, which still plays an important role in Flemish society. "There were some people that I admired," he says, "like the then mayor of Genk, my home town." The Christian Democrats - at the time the Christian People's Party - have had an absolute majority in Genk, Limburg province , since the Second World War. "They gave me a chance, and I took it."

Politics has dictated his life ever since. "I am a Homo politicus," he jokes. He has free time - "enough to go watch Racing Genk win the football championship" - but no real hobbies. "I can't really engage myself," he explains. "Politics is too capricious. I am seldom at ease in politics; I have to keep moving."

He still loves what he does, he says, even though he knows there comes an end to everything. "The trick in politics is to know when to stop. And to be able to make that call yourself. I know how important it is to know your position and capabilities. Politics is a team sport. The collective result is more important than that of the individual."

That almost sounds like someone on his way out. "Not anytime soon, but, yes, it's on my mind. I don't want to be in the situation where others are going to have to come and tell me that it's time to go. I'll try to make my own decision." Will this, then, be his last legislature? "Ha!" he laughs. "I'm sure as anything not going to tell you that!"

Rehabilitation for Super Jo
Vandeurzen has had a good run. He became a member of the Belgian parliament in 1993, after having politically matured at the commune of his native Genk. He soon proved to have a strong knowledge of both justice and public health affairs.

In 2004, he became president of the CD&V and led the government negotiations for his party after the federal elections of 2007, which failed over disagreement on Brussels-Halle-Vilvoorde. "It would have saved us a lot of trouble if we had been able to reach an agreement then," he says.

The interim-government that followed appointed Vandeurzen as justice minister. He set out to reform the justice system, "which hasn't evolved along with the federalisation of the Belgian state," he says. "Until the mid 1990s, until Dutroux [a serial killer who briefly managed to escape], we had a very classical interpretation of the separation of powers: Politics shouldn't meddle in justice affairs. It was only later that we realised we needed to reform."

But, like every career, there have also been low points.

In December 2008, Vandeurzen resigned after one year as justice minister over accusations of trying to influence the appeal on the sale of Fortis bank. "That was terrible; I felt really bad," he says. "The insinuation affected me greatly. I resigned because I felt I had lost the authority needed to push through the reforms." Today, the Belgian justice system is still not perfect, he says. "Much remains to be done."

But the year after was a good one. Vandeurzen secured electoral victory in Genk in Flemish regional elections, with a large number of preferential votes.

"Rehabilitation for Super Jo," the newspapers wrote the day after. "It took a lot to convince me to run," Super Jo says, "but afterwards I'm glad I did. It was a beautiful victory for me."

But the way he talks, his days as a politician seem to be numbered. What does a Homo politicus do after his vita politica? Is there life after politics?

"Hospitals have always been my first love," he says, "and they continue to fascinate me." He once successfully led the merger of two local hospitals. "They're such complex organisations and with a strong social character. People are probably most vulnerable in hospital attire, ready to undergo surgery, surrendered to the hands of strangers." We shouldn't be surprised then if we find Jo Vandeurzen at the head of some big hospital in Flanders one day. "At the head I don't know," he says, "but somewhere, yes."

www.ministerjovandeurzen.be