If I’m reincarnated, I’d like to be comfortable dealing with money

I’ve just spent two days preparing my tax accounts. I was supposed to start on Monday, but after a quick glance at my accounts book I was suddenly filled with a passionate desire to write, go for a walk, watch TV, do some hoovering, listen to music, visit a bookshop, cut my toenails, catch up with a pile of unread magazines… in fact, any activity apart from dealing with my tax obligations. 

I’m pretty sure this process takes at least three months off my life each time, given that it always involves several massive, coronary-inviting outbreaks of irrational shouting, vigorous document abuse, and tons of swearing. For instance, on Tuesday I was plunged into an irrational frenzy for about an hour, mistakenly believing that I owed a lot more than I had imagined (turned out I’d actually taken care of it last year, but hadn’t, of course, bothered making a note of the fact anywhere – that would have been far too sensible).

I imagine that, for people who are comfortable with money and figures, it can be a positive pleasure - the fiscal equivalent of tidying one’s desk or getting all the ironing done or rearranging your iTunes folders. In my case it provides an unwelcome, inescapable reminder of just how bloody useless I am when it comes to money. By the time I have the accounts book, receipts, invoices and covering letter completed I’m a drained, quivering, self-loathing wreck, bereft of confidence and self-respect.( And that’s without having to do the last bit – an accountant then checks that I haven’t made any obvious mistakes, makes the final overall calculations, and actually files the returns. )

If I find the whole thing so distressing, I hear you ask, why not pay full whack and hire one of those accountants you just throw a heap of unsorted papers at, and let them figure it all out? I did that for a few years when I was a naïve young writer, mainly because a close relative once had an horrendous experience with the tax authorities, which almost – literally – killed them. Having become embroiled in that brouhaha – which was really nobody’s fault - I was determined never to wind up in the same boat. Consequently, when I began to earn money from writing, I hired a highly recommended accountancy firm who took care of everything: an expensive but relaxing solution. 

Inevitably, within a couple of years I found myself sitting across the desk from a tax inspector, having to defuse a bristling stand-off between him and my accountant - which, unresolved, could have led to untold horrors for myself.  After this sweaty episode my accountant (who sported a flamboyant bow-tie – that should have acted as a warning) thanked me for stepping in to smoothe things over: I toyed with the idea of sending him a bill for services rendered. 

CAUC!

As a full-time employee, you don’t really face these problems: the state ruthlessly takes its cut before you see a penny: for nearly twenty years, along with billions of other wage slaves around the globe, I’d occasionally stare at my payslip and, noting the grotesque disparity between what I’d earned and what I was allowed to keep, sigh loudly. But at least I wasn’t personally having to make the calculations, or account for every penny I’d earned and spent. (Yes, there was the top-rate tax form, but that was peasy.)

The problem isn’t to do with numeracy: I can use a pocket calculator and I’m good at mental arithmetic. And it’s not that money doesn’t interest me - as a self-employed person with dependants and school fees to pay, it interests me inordinately. It’s just that dealing with money – whether in the form of tax liabilities (VAT just does my head in) or investments (I’ve never knowingly made a really good one)– leaves me deeply uneasy: before the ink is dry on a document, I know I’ve cocked something up. 

Still, I have security and I’m not hard up – if I had a different temperament, I’d probably be telling you what a financial genius I was! (And I’d be lying.)