Too taxing for this brain


Ooh, catch me if you can! I’m afire, a whirling dervish, a human snowplough of mixed metaphors and exaggeration. See, things have been a bit sluggish of late. Maybe my chakras have popped out of their designated ley lines. Maybe I’ve been sitting too far from my healing crystals. Maybe I’ve just been going to be bed too late, but whatever it is, I used to be a lot better at a) getting up and b) getting stuff done, but then, I dunno, winter happened. Ha! Not this weekend. This weekend I’ve been a blur.

Yesterday I went to Tate Modern where my flatmate gave me a tour around the Gerhard Richter exhibition because she’s a Richterphile. I by contrast know nowt about art and usually get museum legs and art gallery backache within about 40 minutes, but we managed two hours. Then I walked up to Spitalfields – where a mate was running a stall at a vintage fair – to browse the Bakelite and try on hats, before helping her spend her takings on pints and curry.

This morning, I kicked off big by doing my tax return. The prelims and calculations had been done, the ground prepared, as complained about in an earlier post. Groundwork notwithstanding, I still managed to make an error so grave the blood pooled in my legs for a few heartbeats, before rushing back up to my head, taking a wave of sick with it. See, I was just checking over the final view and thanks to some fat-fingered brain fart the form seemed to think the interest I was earning – the interest – on my savings was £16,719. The interest? And where the arse did 16 grand come from? Nothing like that number had appeared anywhere in my calculations.

Anyway, I was able to go back in and adjust the amount – precipitously downwards to a square-rooty-feeling £158, if you must know – and clicked back, eyes gleaming with avarice, to find how that had affected the calculations. No difference. Even an overstatement to the tune of 16-plus effing grand hadn’t bunked me erroneously into the next tax band. Hey ho. I also had to declare my dividends of any investments, so I made a clean breast of the £7.34 I’d cleared from a dream investment in Telecom Eireann shares. They cost me £700 ten years ago. In another 90 years I should have made a tidy profit of ooh, rainbows and buttercups.

But getting that bugger out of the way I was like a dog out of the traps: after that I overwintered the garden, calculated the household bills for the last five months, did all my washing, cleaned the bathroom, did a grocery shop, wrote a thank you letter, went to Stoke Newington for tea, had a swim and watched yet another episode of Lewis.

Incidentally, you know when you’re having tea with a friend, praps in Stoke Newington, and their child interrupts at an intriguing bit but then it’s chaos and you only remember later? Yeah, so I’ve just had a flashback which I feel needs clarification. We were interrupted just after my hostess had announced that people are often to be seen naked and shagging at a toy train museum in Hamburg ‘but the children don’t notice’. Wtf? I mean really, WTF?


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