Okay, the new tax year starts in April, but January means one thing (other than giving up booze and New Year’s resolutions): TAX.
Movember is much easier for me, as I now have a permanent moustache – being a woman who has lived for several decades. But somehow my longevity doesn’t help me deal with the tax deadline.
It always seems like a chaotic dash with the odds stacked against me. Though I do try – God knows I try – to keep everything I need on a spike…
I did ace it once, back in the days before we lived in The Matrix: when there was an actual Birmingham tax office; that you could actually walk into; with actual tax officers; who would look at your actual accounts.
There had been a massive snowfall/ensuing traffic jams the night before my tax return was due: everyone who worked in the centre had pretty much only just got home by the next morning…
Some snow was still on the ground, but the weather was bright. I hopped on an empty bus; skipped into an all but deserted municipal building; was transported immediately (in a roomy lift), to the correct floor – ‘ping’. I waited for five minutes with a little triangular ticket, along with one other person – a builder with a shoe box full of receipts, who also couldn’t believe his luck.
After that brief, pleasantly contemplative moment, I was ushered to a desk by a really nice man who appeared capable of very complicated sums in his head; and wrote backwards.
(I’m presuming this chap who looked at my accounts/answered my queries lived in the basement to be closer to the numbers.)
It’s my memory that this nice man helped me fill in my return, and took it off me there and then, before I tra-la-la’d out of the building and back home on another empty bus. Those were the days… (Yes, Michael Gove/Gavin Williamson/current Education Secretary whoever you are, I just made up a verb.) Helen Kelly