Permission to scream
I have completed the most thankless task that I face each year. My tax returns are “on the net”. All four of them, because in this schizophrenic political system I must report to two sets of masters, for my better half and me. Four sets of forms that reassure my choice of profession: anything other than financial affairs. I hate dealing with numbers.
Yes, I use software and yes I have a “simple situation”. One job, several kids, no known investments (other than multiple tiers of government that require regular injections of funding). I’m not particularly charitable (particularly toward the multiple tiers of goverment…). Wait, I said that already. You see, they really do drive me to distraction, as my father used to say. I challenge myself intellectually by using a program in my second language, but I remember that my stress level wasn’t much lower when I did things in the Governor-General’s English.
So, the moment I’ve been waiting for. All done, and no huge cloud of debt on the horizon. I can relax now, unclench my fists, stop mumbling nasty phrases in two languages under my breath. Permission to scream, captain. The fact that the authorities have all my financial data before I begin and all the necessary funds deducted “at source” only adds insult to injury. I’m completing forms that are unnecessary, if I may be charitable, which I am am not particularly. Wait, I said that already, too. You see the state they leave me in… poor and infuriated.
