It’s that time of year. The time when my dreams are haunted by columns of figures and my days are filled with excuses to avoid doing our tax returns. This year, being in lockdown, I should find it easier to plant my bum on a chair, stay inside and just get on with it. But Wellington has chosen this time to put on the sort of weather show we usually only dream about. So I spend a lot of time staring out of the window. (Incidentally, the weather gods are on my Arya Stark inspired list and I’ll get them one day. More likely they’ll get me and rain and gales will kick in the minute we are allowed out without restriction.)
This is a time of year Neil dreads. Not only does he have to spend time doing accounts, something he hates, but he also has to hand over a significant proportion of his hard-earned to the tax man. I don’t mind it so much as I have a head for figures and a fear of a call from IRD demanding cent-accurate accounts for the last seven years. The thought that I would end up in debtor’s prison (this still being the nineteenth century, of course) means I am particularly anal about account keeping. (And many other things – another story.)
It’s also a time of year when our spending on certain items increases. I may not mind the figures but, after a few hours working on them my head feels larger and heavier and I need chocolate. Or cake. I’m not fussy. After a few more hours going through it all with my figure-challenged husband, I need something stronger. He blames my spreadsheets, which he thinks are unorganised and ‘messy’. He’s a spreadsheet guru but I do the household accounts and manage those for our company so if he doesn’t like it he… well, let’s just say he’s wise. He knows when it’s a good idea to keep quiet – especially during lockdown.