No Accounting for taste
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.