A Visit From the Tax Man

I was in no mood to get off the sofa but the relentless ticking of Chickie’s just-out-of-reach car indicator was torturing me. You can tell the people who don’t really like you. They buy your child gifts that they’re guaranteed to adore and play with endlessly. They’re too big to store discreetly, are hideously luminous and have a musical repertoire designed to punish. Most importantly though, they must have no “off” switch.

It had been a relatively peaceful day up until that point. Accountant had wallowed in bed until midday and Chickie was happy as, after suffering a bad botty night, he’d finally lost the will to clench and let himself go (not in the same way his mummy's let herself go). He was much chirpier when I went into him this morning and I was pleased to see he had felt well enough to wipe his nose on my white linen curtains.

Accountant audited me today, ploughing through years worth of paperwork dumped randomly into our ‘filing’ cabinet. The questions came thick and fast – “What’s this credit card? And this one? What’s the current balance? What did you purchase for £184.89 in January 2004?”

Flustered, I tried to keep up wishing I had more time to prepare. I miss the days when I had my own money, could spend it on whatever I wanted and was unaccountable to an Accountant.

My day concluded with a grilling over the eight phonecalls I made to the Hallmark Channel Quiz at 75p a pop. I know now it was a sad mistake but it was a slow moving day and I was sure I knew the answer…