Tax

Number One Daughter has issued dire warnings that the cats would, if left unsupervised, get in the beds, crawl under the duvets and wee there. Apparently this was one of the reasons that Ritalin Boy’s Other Grandma declined the pleasure of their company. She also left us with half a bag of Whiskas which the dog has eaten already, and no cat litter.

Mark was so incensed this morning at them sharpening their claws on the sofa and ignoring his shouts that he threw the butter knife at them, which missed them but left buttery smears on the curtains and carpet. He is not an animal lover.

It was the day for taking Oliver back to school today, and it seemed to be full of tiresome stuff that needed doing: a long form to be filled in and taken to school, shoe cleaning and uniform ironing and boy polishing and I was halfway through all of this when the Inland Revenue called, wanting to revive our cordial but troubled relationship about some dispute we have had carrying on for over a year about what is definitely either an underpayment or an overpayment of PAYE.

It has gone on for so long and become so confusing that I think neither they nor I have got the first idea who is right any more. It is two hundred pounds, so hardly bank breaking anyway: but I think I have paid it and they think that I have not. I paid them seven hundred and thirty eight pounds and forty nine pence, according to my bank account, but they have paid five hundred and sixty pounds and eighty two pence off my tax bill and then spent the rest on something else, although they do not seem to  be very sure what it was.

I have every sympathy with this sort of behaviour as it happens to me all the time: but I think that it is unlikely to be because they forgot that they had popped into Asda on the way home and bought the cheap wine that was on offer, or because they had a direct debit going out of their bank that they had forgotten they had set up or that had gone early because it was weekend or something, or possibly some random and unpredictable bank charges that their bank had been saving as a surprise because they had forgotten that they went overdrawn a couple of weeks ago. I know we are in something of a financial mess in this country at the moment but think that even George Osbourne has never got quite that desperate.

It has taken us ages to get to this point anyway, because they insisted that I had paid them the five hundred and sixty pounds and eighty two pence on the twentieth of November 2013. I couldn’t remember off the top of my head what I was doing on the twentieth of November 2013, and of course did not keep a handy online diary back in those days which might have come in very useful for reference purposes: so I had got to go and do some research and find out.

It turned out that I was not paying money to the Inland Revenue, especially not five hundred pounds for the December payment of my employees’ National Insurance, because on that particular date I didn’t have either any employees or any money: so I was probably sitting on the taxi rank feeling a bit bleak and chilly.

I hunted through every single bank statement and puzzled and puzzled, and eventually found a payment for seven hundred and thirty eight pounds and forty nine pence on the twenty eighth of November. This was equally a surprise to the Inland Revenue,  who had no record of this at all: however eventually, in the absence of any other numbers or payments, we have come to agree between us that these two figures must actually, somehow, in some alternative universe, be one and the same, but how we have come to be in such a muddle neither of us has any idea, and the very nice man on the other end of the phone seemed to be making a mental note not to ring me again, which is what the last two people who have been dealing with the problem have done.

I suspect that the difficulty may have come about because of my mathematical incompetence, which usually turns out to be the root cause of all these sorts of problems, also the direct interference of Eris Goddess of Chaos who has a fondness for the Inland Revenue as an occasional source of amusement.

Mark, who is not any fonder of the Inland Revenue than he is of the cats, growled that the whole thing is a ridiculous waste of time and effort, and for goodness’ sake just give them two hundred quid anyway, and then they can pay off their gas bill and have done with it and I can stop buggering about with it and get on with something else.

The nice man today suggested that I took it to appeal, mostly, I think, because that meant it would go to a different department and our relationship would be at an end.

I think it is much less worrying than the prospect of finding cat wee in my bed. It is lovely to be able to have a sense of proportion about these things.