This morning is one of my glorious “work from home days”. I have ceased calling it a day off because although I am not in the office doing what I do, this behind the scenes stuff is almost as time consuming.
So today, yes I had a lovely sleep in and I can ‘work’ in my dressing gown (getting dressed is a point of no return, I like to stay in denial for as long as I can when it comes to working) – I look at my home office and realise there is a shit load of stuff to be done.
The 257 unread emails in my inbox: which I believe and sincerely hope are just professional mailing list epistles, mainly from colleagues in the States who are saying things I am not hugely interested in hearing. Only I don’t dare delete them unread, in case there really is something of note hidden amongst them.
The book outline I am writing (non fiction).
The barebones of fiction I started and stopped (3 or 4 pieces).
Work admin to be sorted.
Bills to be paid.
And then, just as I was getting my teeth into the outline (reworked the basics of an entire chapter, thank you very much) and I tried to sort through the mess that is the electronic home of my document files – a sinking feeling hit me. Just three little letters…
Give me a G
Give me a S
Give me a T
The bane of the self employed, the Good and Services Tax. Back in 2000 the government sang us sweet songs about how this would unchain us from outdated fiddley taxes. In fact they spent $420 million of our precious taxpayer money
trying to convince us it was “not another tax, it’s a new tax system”. Really, it’s just turned into a tax to pay for the ads, to sell us the tax after all.
The cliché goes “there are only 2 things certainties – death and taxes", but those in the medical profession have a third cert. on their list.
I had the misfortune of sitting next to a young British doctor on a trans Tasman flight. He had begun bugging me at the gate lounge, wondering if I could carry some extra duty free for him (I kid you not). Rather spookily, just when I hoped to see the back of him as we boarded – he whipped out his ticket which revealed he was sitting in the next seat to me. The flight was full; I pulled on my walkman (remember life before the ipod?) and attempted to ignore him. But he persisted. After he had let me know in no uncertain terms what class he was from (reference to his nanny and elite schooling) he banged on about how he would cheer himself up when he was feeling down. You see, he informed me, the third certainty in life is nurses. All he had to do was consult his little black book and there would be the phone number of some nurse who would be grateful for some well-bred rogering. As I headed off to the toilet to vomit, he looked askance “Want to join the mile high club?” Why I didn’t loose my lunch over his smug little face at that point, I do not know. Instead I shared with him a fourth certainty – not in his lifetime.
Poor lamb, really all he wanted to do to me is what our government is doing to us. Over and over again.
And with certainty I know each quarter I swear I will keep up with my bookwork, file my bank statements, keep track of my sundries and remember how to fill in my BAS...