There's one for you, nineteen for me...

This morning I logged on excitedly to read Cash Loan's comment to my blog last night, my appetite for replies being whetted by seeing their teaser message hover above my Gmail notifier.

Unfortunately, Cash Loan wasn't, disappointingly, offering me a Cash Loan but trying to find one themselves – either Payday Loans or Cash in Advance they weren’t fussy. Luckily, with my deep rooted knowledge in how the web works, I was able to discover a link subtly hidden within their message for such a blog as they were after. If they had such insight into the way of the web themselves, they need not have posted at all on my blog, merely have found the way to the generous and un-fussy blog themselves (I have refrained from visiting it myself).

I have decided not to publish Cash Loan's poignant and thought provoking message this morning, but would like to take the opportunity to thank them for preying on me, rather than some other hapless blogger who may, just may click on the link and, God forbid, even follow what ludicrous offer said blog may offer in order to receive ‘great wads of cash’.

However much I detest spamming (although I do quite like the inspired way that blog spam leads in with a nice bit of flattery, before conveying its unwanted and intrusive message), Cash Loan struck a chord.

Last night, I completed my tax return for 05/06.

I am not good at maths at the best of times. I needed a maths tutor to scrape my GCSE up to somewhere near my other grades in year 11. From the heady heights of a B, I then repeated my maths GSCE no less than three years later in my first year at University. Apparently, 39% is officially not a pass, the official fail cut off is 35% so I was laughing (or, actually, a little bit tearful, but a pass is a pass nonetheless and who needs to know how to draw matrices anyway).

Maths and money together form an all-powerful, terrifying evil Mumm-Ra The Ever Living power in my life (I, of course, am assuming the character of the swift, sexy and agile beauty that is Cheetara, if anyone’s interested). They unite together to form this omnipotent living dead terror, that haunts me in the night and thrives feeding off my never-decreasing overdraft, hidden in the harmless paper leaves of every invoice and pay check like a snake curled seemingly innocently in the long grass.

I am not bad with money. I don’t buy clothes, or if I do they come from one of several high street supermarket chains, or if I’m feeling fit and healthy, from a lengthy rifle through the disarrayed rails of TK Maxx. I have not bought an item of clothing since I arrived in New Zealand in July, and my luggage did not.

I don’t buy CDs, I don’t eat expensive food (I know exactly how much a tin of beans cost), I don’t drink vast quantities of alcohol (unless someone else is paying, naturally).

I have been self employed on and off since I left University. This is now my fourth tax return and I am well aware that the Tax Man will strip me of every penny that I have saved to offer in sacrifice to his all-consuming self at the end of January each year.

Last year, having been self employed for only 3 months of the year 04/05 in total, passed by relatively uneventfully. I even got a healthy rebate and praised the Tax Man for his generosity in giving me money back I thought had been consumed by the Inland Revenue forever. I am painfully honest, every invoice, every receipt is noted and accounted for. My tax bill, in reflection, doesn’t really so much as reward me for good behaviour as mock me for being a sincere and law abiding citizen. However, once a year tax has to be paid, and I have to be financially crippled.

Of course I have a tax account. Of course I put money into my tax account, each month (or whenever a client sees fit to pay me, which rarely coincides with being 30 days after I’ve actually invoiced them).

Well, I did anyway.

Until my car died.

My tax bill, now hitting double figured because the nice people at the Inland Revenue thought it would be a good idea to not only rip the very financial heart out of me but plunge me into further debt by demanding a contribution to the next tax year, would have been achievable without that great dark ink stain, swelling to form a financial vortex on my otherwise relatively stable financial situation.

Last night, looking back at my purchase, my beautiful Honda Civic complete with climate control (nope, still not sure exactly what it does other than blow cold air whatever setting I have it on) and a vast array of warning lights (you haven’t got your seatbelt on, the door is open, the door is open AND you haven’t got your seatbelt on, oh look and now someone in the back has taken theirs off too, and just a reminder it is under 3 degrees outside so it might be icy so they really do need to put their seatbelts on), I would have rather had the funds to pay my tax bill and had our uncomfortable yet reliable-to-the-moment-it-started-spewing-yellow-liquid-from-the-water-tank Rover 214 which has no doubt been mended swiftly and is giving its new owner many hours of pleasure after a devastating purchase for £50 earlier this year.

On the other hand, Newfy wouldn’t have fitted in the Rover 214. Whether that means that we would have had to get a smaller dog to fit the car, or a larger car to fit the dog, I’m not sure.

There were consultations with my mum last night. She is like Arch Angel Gabriel’s secretary, who has tight control of his purse strings and a strong hold of his wayward ego. No money for that miracle this month. You’ll have to hold off that vision until the gas bill has been paid and then we’ll see what we have left over. She won’t buckle to a trembled bottom lip, owing money is debt and debt needs to be solved, end of. She effectively manages a budget of millions and deals with my personal crisis of a few thousand with the same swift, unfaltering approach.

Then, once she had left me to wallow in my own self pity, came the tears. The tears cascaded into a massive messy pool of wailing and blubbing and an attempt to solve my financial crisis by blindly and erratically searching on the internet to see if the Inland Revenue were flexible on this sort of thing.

My boyfriend came to mend my fractured self later in the evening, himself in a substantial amount of debt following his return from New Zealand. I wailed uncontrollably that things just weren’t fair, that I’d worked so hard in a job I didn’t like, in a career I hated, putting in every hour freelancing to top up my salary.

The evening was resolved by the realisation that drastic measures were needed. I am, to put it bluntly, suffering a financial embuggerment. I have no money. I am skint. I am worse than skint, I am awaiting a huge financial shafting like a hurricane advancing on the horizon. This isn’t the usual I am variably skint, no money to go to this gig but enough money to put petrol in the car. This is no holds barred, completely and totally without cash. I have money in my account at the moment, but that money is tainted, marked with the blood red stain of the Tax Man, awaiting its collection patiently, awaiting to be invested, to be counted, to join the millions of virtual coins that will give themselves up to the Inland Revenue on January 31st.

I am poor to the point that even visiting friends, my one indulgence, my addictive expensive hobby (living in Cornwall, everywhere is a long way) will have to be instantly curtailed. Phone calls will dissolve into text messages until my free ones are used up, when emails will have to finally take their place.

Of course I understand taxes are needed. I understand what they are for. I am happy to contribute to the state, to stand up and be counted. I just wish they didn’t want to count quite so much.

I hope my family and friends appreciate heartfelt messages in Christmas cards instead of gifts this year. Although I have a few quid I can redeem in Tesco online if anyone fancies a festive pork pie or Christmas croissant.