Lately, when it comes to tax, I do it every 2 years, cos I am not a millionaire.
I started last Tuesday to make the effort to do it again, as I drive, I use medical facilities, so I better.
I collect all the little pieces of paper I have to, to justify running my life my way.
I do not need a shoe box anymore, just a little D6 envelope. And stapler. An excel spreadsheet. A pen.
Pa-thetic. (In a Scottish brogue, sounds grrreat)
This year I have a little business to run, so upgraded to two envelopes…
Have I made enough to justify paying the tax-man, all the extras charged and collected? That is a good question. We’ll see. That’s all in another envelope.
Oh oh, no, that makes three. Well, I bought a box of 100 really cheap years ago- so cheap there is no gum, you have to sticky tape them closed. You know, look after the pennies, and pounds look after themselves. Yeah, right.
So I think I have it sorted. And another pile of paper appears from under it all. Start again.
There is an appointment with an accountant next week. I have been him seeing each year or so since last century. Late last century. That’s a weird way to say for over a decade. The date was made last week.
I have been hounded from a different direction altogether for an income statement for a while now. Obviously a profit and loss statement not quite nearly enough for some people. A tax return statement please sir.
The accountant will get a big slice if there is anything to get back, but it’s like the law. Like voting, death and consumerism. A fair cut of the profit.
Anyway, the old stuff is in a blue folder, full with the envelopes and old bills. The previous years accounts are still all over an armchair, nearly sorted, just the new stuff to double check. Since the day before. Been somewhat busy.
The current stuff is dutifully filed in a plan vanilla manila folder, in a drawer of the filing cabinet, with three envelopes. I plan on being more efficient for next year, when its due, it will be ready!
I have had a nearly child free night tonight. For about 100 minutes. Maybe sit down and finish that pile.
Apart from taxiing them (the immediate descendants) all around town.
Two off to a girlfriends’ pizza and movie night, and making up for a mix-up at work. A pizza made by the eldest boys for the three of us was downed with a beer for those that can drink. A really nice simple affair, then off one split.
And then drop-offs and pickups. An obligatory cuppa with my in-laws, swapped some stories. Quiet inconsequential talk, and left two with their pop for a big day out tomorrow. Fifteen kilometers, four hours, the petrol.
Home for the gap in the buzz, a nap in front of the SBS movie.
A taxi door slam, and back to the clickety clack of the networked teens, and I am back here, finishing off a piece about avoiding that pile of work on the arm chair.
I am about to crash, as I have a long day babysitting the proles at the polling booth ahead, and then counting their scratchings to vote in another boring committee. And getting a few dollars for the effort.
I do love this place.