A few weeks later they wrote to me again – my form had become detached from the paperwork, so could I complete another one? I grumbled a little but I duly filled it in again and sent it off. A few more weeks passed and they wrote to me once more to tell me that all the paperwork that my previous form had become detached from had now also gone missing into the ether. I was beginning to get the impression they didn’t want me get my greasy mitts on the cash but I pressed on, re-sent my paperwork and after another few weeks they acknowledged my tenacity and sent me a nice cheque for a couple of hundred quid which was less than I expected but very welcome all the same.
So this year I considered whether it would be worth the hassle of the 'Groundhog Day' scenario of constantly filling out and sending the same paperwork over and over again but decided that the money would be nice, perhaps just after Christmas, to tide me over into the New Year. So I sent off a new form………and that was my first mistake.
The now not-so-nice people at HMRC wrote back to me to tell me that my form was worthless to them as I had blissfully passed unawares across some arbitrary threshold. As I understand it my last three salary payments have been made to me on dates corresponding with a waxing crescent moon and consequently they need me to fill in a dreaded tax return.
A couple of days later another letter arrived, they had obviously had a chat amongst themselves and come up with an amazing wheeze just to annoy me. This new letter explained that they’d decided that I should fill in a tax return every year, bwah-ha-ha-ha-ha-haaaaa!!!!!! OK, so the letter didn’t include the manic evil laughter but it may as well have done.
What the tax mafia don’t seem to realise is that me and numbers are only passing acquaintances. I can add and subtract and multiply and, at a push, divide, but I don’t like it. I like calculators and Microsoft Excel that do all the hard work for me without having to scribble archaic symbols and cross out lots of numbers because they’re not the right numbers, according to the number police.
The problem is that whilst numbers dominate us every day, for me they have no heart. They just exist to make me happy or sad, rich or poor, young or old. They carry no romance. I know, for example, there’s a road called the A1. I drive on it occasionally. I like to see landmarks on it, like the Harrier outside RAF Wittering, or the pointy-roofed Little Chef at Markham Moor. But the name, the A1, is emotionless. Now if you call it by its other name, the Great North Road, immediately I am thinking of stagecoaches and Dick Turpin, and I know where the road leads to. Cars are the same. An Audi A5 or a BMW X3 may be good cars but I would rather go back in time and have a Triumph Herald. It sounds nicer, like it was made by the fluttering wings of Angels.
So the thought of filling in a tax return with more meaningless numbers does not fill me with any thoughts of pleasure, but many hateful and resentful feelings towards Her Majesty, and her Revenue & Customs. Seriously, if she invites me to her Grandson's wedding I’m not going now.
When they receive my online journey into numerical hell I’m sure they will be less fascinated with my receipts from filling stations the length and breadth of the UK, they won’t care where I’ve travelled and what wonders I’ve seen, they’ll be more interested in whether my earnings are such that my tax code should change from one meaningless number to another.
In the words of ‘The Prisoner’, “I am not a number, I am a free man”. Unless of course I make a real hash of it and I end up in prison. Anyone know a good accountant?
There is a fifth dimension, beyond that which is known to man. It is a dimension as vast as space and as timeless as infinity. It is the middle ground between light and shadow, between science and superstition, and it lies between the pit of man's fears and the summit of his knowledge. This is the dimension of imagination. It is an area which we call.... The Civil Service....
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