I am deep in my annual accounts/tax crisis. Expect nowt from me until it is over, one way or another.
For those who were wondering about the question posed in my poll the other day, but not wondering enough to Run And Find Out, Meredith Hunter was the man killed by the Hell's Angels security while the Rolling Stones played* at the Altamont Free Concert, on 6th December 1969, sometimes seen as the Anti-Woodstock and the day the 60s died. Now you know. There was no real purpose to the poll, it was just a random thought.
*Not "Sympathy for the Devil", but "Under My Thumb", contrary to the myth. I've never really seen why they should be blamed to be honest: for one thing they probably couldn't see much of what was going on, for another, stopping playing would probably have caused a major riot.
And it came to pass in those days that there went out a decree from Her Brittanic Majesty's Inspector of Taxes, that all the world, or at least that part of the world liable to pay income tax in the United Kingdom in accordance with ICTA 1988 as amended by FA 2002 and under Schedule D, Cases I and II thereof, should return by 31st January 2005 a true and fair (or in some special cases, receipts-based) statement of their turnover and net income between 6th April 2003 and 5th April 2004 together with a balancing payment for the said year and an estimated payment for half the following year.
And there was much panic in the land, for many of those chargeable under Schedule D Cases I and II are by definition a feckless bunch. And lo, they found they had spent their income when they billed it, and then spent it again when they received it and then spent the bit they'd managed to put in another account when something or other happened, and they couldn't find their receipts, nor could they remember how their bloody capital allowances pool worked or understand the scribbled calculations on the back of an envelope from last year. And there was always sore temptation in the shape of Midsomer Murders on tv on a Sunday evening.
But lo, the day came where the ludicrous antics and murder rate of this Cotswolds metropolis could no longer take them apart from their ordained course. And the days were accomplished wherein the return should be completed (less one week dead), and they brought forth an on-line tax return. And looked at the final figure in fear and loathing, and spake, saying
uuurghuuurgh I was afraid of that. remembering the nasty shock they had when they looked at their bank account statement the other day.
And in celebration and mourning, they poured themselves a very large drink. And looked gloomily at the next pile, headed by a notice to fill in a VAT return for the quarter, and spake unto themselves once more saying
next time, I'm going to get a bloody accountant.
In my pigeonhole this morning:
On your recent VAT return you entered X in box 3 as your gross VAT for the quarter and in box 4 that you were reclaiming Y as VAT on purchases in the quarter. However, the figure you then entered in box 5 as the sum due to HMCE, Z, for which you also sent us a cheque* is 1000 pounds more than X-Y. We suggest you may have omitted to carry a 1 in the thousands and return your form for correction.
Her Majesty's Commissioners of Customs and Excise.
Or words to that effect.
As I said to the pleasant lady in Cardiff on the phone, this goes some way to explaining why I'm quite so poor this month.
*Which they have cashed. Obvs.
All somewhat chaotic at the moment, and I have a case I'm finding it inordinately difficult to get a grip on, plus I have various ideas on the go, hence little time or energy to think up witty and original things to post here.
I have a little list of things to do cycling through my brain. Unfortunately it's a non-trivial list, including as it does VAT Return and find Money to Pay Same (for I am a fool and didn't sort out putting it aside this quarter).
Somewhere in the midst of all this I found time to meet and drink with the inimitable Eurotrash, also for a drink with K., so I'm managing to cling on to cheerfulness still. More later, perhaps, if the analysis of costs bills dating back to 1996, not to mention the costs of arguing about said costs bills (and there'll be costs of this exercise, you mark my words) doesn't finally turn my brane to putty.
Oh arse. Also bugger and shite. The Vatman wants some more money. Heigh ho.
Oh, and, finally got this thing to work, though only by lying about having a valid zip code. Is there something else you're supposed to do, or are those of us outside the US considered unworthy..?
Wahey. Friday again. That was a short week, though not without its ups and downs, and its mega-down, though I still have hopes for Glastonbury if I'm patient.
Not much to say really. I wouldn't bother reading yesterday's post if you haven't already: washing down a club sandwich with half a bottle of wine does nothing for my coherence.
Quiet evening in Primrose Hill I think. Grand National and stuff tomorrow, boat race (yeah, I know, but soddit, I do care, vaguely) Sunday.
Somewhere along the line I have to tidy my flat (hmm, I may have said that here before) and have that first cautious look at the letter from those lovely people HM Commissioners of the Inland Revenue, you know, the one that last two minutes before you put it away and go to the pub.