The last day and a half have been taken up with the exciting ‘hunt for an accountant’. Yay, whoo… er… Not the most glam / rock star thing I’ve gotten up to of late, but there you go. Needs must when the chancellor of the exchequer sets his beady, greasy little eyes on the contents of your bank account. The trouble with the whole working for a living and writing in your spare time thing, is that if you do actually make it and con someone into giving you an advance, the Inland Revenue are rubbing their hands, desperate to kick the proverbial crap out of any money you’ve got. Delightful little darlings, the lot of them. So, your newfound write-ist has no option but to get a champion to fight for him or her, someone to take up the sword of deductions and allowable expense against the slings and arrows of outrageous income tax.
In the end I’ve decided on a little local firm -- rather than the big trans-Aberdonian conglomerates (ahem) -- who are going to keep as much of my cash as possible in my pocket rather than that thieving bastard Gordon Brown’s. Gotta ask: what the heck’s he doing to earn my money anyway? My gutters are leaking: he going to come round and fix them? Or dig over my tattie patch? Or do the ironing? No, he just wants money for nothing, so he can blow it all on nose-candy* and hookers**. Thieving bastard. Did I say that already?
Anyway, like getting VAT registered, this is one of those less than glamorous moments in the fledgling write-ist’s life. It’s not all books and blogging you know.
* he’s often to be seen wandering the corridors of Whitehall with a sherbet dib-dab rammed up his hooter.