There's something about the words " tax return," that turn my heart to stone and cause the life to seep from my soul
Words like capital gains allowance float incomprehensibly in front of my eyes and I try desperately to cling onto their meaning.
Ninesh sits patiently by my side, trying to control his frustration.
" What do you mean, you didn't keep the receipt for that?," he says.
"it's not that I didn't keep it," I say defensively, " it's just that I don't know where it is."
Every year, as April 5th arrives, I vow that this year will be the year I start filling in my tax return early, saving everything in an orderly way, remembering how much you can claim per mile, knowing exactly how much the mortgage interest was.
Every year I make that vow.
And every year it gets to January 20th, with 11 days to go before my return must be filed and I haven't even started.
I'm not sure why.
Once you start filling it in, it's never as bad as you think it's going to be.
Especially now that you can do it virtually, on line and there's that reassuring percentage marker across the top showing you exactly how much of your form you have completed.
It's amazingly comforting.
" Yay," I shout triumphantly, "1% complete."
Which means I've filled in my name and address.
I know it's churlish, this resistance to filling in a form, to adding and multiplying and percentaging, to totalling up my last year's life and slicing off a third.
But with every fibre of my being, I fight the moment when I have to sit down and do it.
I think maybe I struggle with the concept that parts of your life have to be defined purely by their monetary value.
Our flat in London, the lovely flat I used to live in, right in the heart of London next to the canal where I was woken every morning by the quacking of ducks, becomes a taxable asset with allowable expenditure.
The stories that I sit and write dreamily in the shed and living room, become a loss making business.
The long hours that I work at the Children's Centre, optimistically believing that they might really make a difference, are reduced to nothing more than a disappointing income.
And I can't help finding it all depressing.
I can't stop myself from believing that what you do, should be so much greater than a balance between profit and loss.
Life should mean so much more than the gap between taxable assets and disposable income.
I fill in my National Insurance Number and the details of my employer- 8% complete.
I'm making progress.
Most of the things we do, can't be quantified or valued: the cleaning, the smiling, the listening, the dreaming.
Yet those untaxable, non- profit making moments are what define us
I hate to see everything I have done over the last year divided up into sections and fitted into tickable boxes.
I like to believe I'm so much too mysterious and enigmatic to fit into a box
!
Self-employment done- 47% complete.
But if I am honest, there is a simpler reason why I spend so much time resisting filling in my tax return.
The truth is, it highlights my lack of organisation and the chaotic way I think and live.
Those are not things to be proud of.
If I had kept all my receipts in the same place, if I could remember where I had put my P60, if I had put all my invoices in the right file on my computer, then filling in a tax return would be easy.
But I haven't done any of that, so filling in my tax return highlights my failings- and that's never a nice thing to see on paper.
All the sections are done, 90% complete.
All that's left to do is to submit and pay.
Then it will be 100% complete.
The pain over for another year.
But somehow, even that seems wrong.
Recently my mum and dad were on holiday in the Canary Islands.
As my dad struggled to lift his foot onto the curb, leaning on his stick, a voice behind him asked if he needed help.
Dad declined and the owner of the voice, an elderly German man, walked past him and stood in front of him, waiting patiently.
" It's over for us," he said to my dad sympathetically as he finally made it onto the curb.
Taken aback, dad thought for a minute and said:
" But I still eat a lot! "
And he's right.
The world is full of delicious food, still waiting to be eaten.
Until we breathe our last breath, nothing is over, nothing in life should be 100% complete.
Not even a tax return.
With my finger hovering over the "pay now," button, I watch the percentage marker: 97% complete.
For a moment I let my chaotic thoughts wander into 2014, a new year, still only 0.83% complete. I imagine it full of hopes and dreams and laughter and love ( I only ever imagine the good parts ) and all that untaxable potential gives me strength.
My resistance melts, I press the button.
My taxes are returned for another year.
My future is 0% complete.
Sunday 26 January 2014
Tuesday 14 January 2014
That mother-son thing
One of the hardest things about being a mum, is the day you wake up and your son has outgrown you.
I don't mean that he's suddenly taller than you ( although that happens too ) but that he suddenly feels that it's no longer cool to be seen anywhere in public with his mum.
No more shopping together for his clothes - " you always choose ugly things! "
No more meeting in town for a milkshake- " I'm meeting my friends! "
No more sitting together at the cinema- " why would I want to see that film with you? "
No more family days on the beach- " there's a whole group of us going later."
And if you do pass him in the street with his friends, you must absolutely not ever wave or show that you recognise him- " why did you do that mum? You're so embarrassing."
It's not that daughters don't do it too. It's just that their desire to be independent and free themselves from parental control doesn't seem to need such a complete disconnect.
Often our daughter will still let me meet her in town for a coffee ( if I'm paying ) or to go shopping ( if I'm paying ) and she will even still sit next to me at the cinema ( if I'm paying ).
Girls seem to be able to mix family and friends more easily than boys.
And the hard thing with boys, is the suddenness with which it all happens.
Boys seem to lurch up the hill of adolescence in zig-zagging, unpredictable strides, while girls take it more slowly and long-sufferingly.
Our son, Joss, seemed to go to bed one night a sweet little boy, still wanting a goodnight kiss and a bedtime story, and woke up the next morning a grunting teenager.
As his mum, I found the speed at which it happened confusing and complicated and
(dare I say it ) just a little bit sad.
Overnight I had to rethink a relationship that had been based on that special " mother-son thing,":
knowing the things that made him grumpy,
understanding, without words, when he was tired or hungry or out of his comfort zone, knowing when he just needed a hug or a few words of encouragement.
All of that was gone.
It felt as though during the night an alien had landed in my son's body and it was making him speak a language that I couldn't understand.
Whatever I said was wrong.
However I said it was irritating.
Whatever I wanted to know was none of my business.
" What would you like for breakfast?" " Not hungry.
" What time will you be back?" " Why?"
" Will you be home for lunch?" " Dunno."
" You should wear a coat, it's freezing." " It's not. Stop talking so much."
Ninesh, his dad, seemed completely unphased by the sudden change.
He seemed almost relieved that someone in the house was, at last, speaking his language.
No more having to analyse emotions and discuss for hours how to deal with a situation.
" Leave him alone," he'd say, " he's told you he's not hungry." " If he gets cold, that's his problem."
And I know he's right.
But silently watching your son walking away from you is very hard.
Accepting that he will no longer be the little boy, holding your hand as he skips along the pavement next to me, is hard.
To keep him close, I have had to learn a different way of being.
I have had to learn to bite my tongue, to listen not speak, to wait until information is offered rather than to request it, to cross the road when I see him and his friends in town, to interpret grunts, to keep the fridge full, to let him get cold and wet, to trust this stranger that is my son.
Finding things that we can do together, has been hard.
He can go to football matches with his dad.
He can discuss fashion and music with his sister.
He has little in common with me.
But last weekend we flew together to Berlin, taking his cousin, Toby, with us.
And perhaps because it is rare that we spend so much time together, perhaps because I have learnt to value moments that we share, we had a magical time.
We stayed with my cousin, surprised her son for his 10th birthday, go-karted at his party (not me!) cycled around the Brandenburg Gate on a six-seater bike (including me) and ate Bratwurst in the " Mauerpark," drifting across the no man's land of old East-West days.
And as we sat in the plane on the way home, Joss leant his head on my shoulder and fell asleep.
Very gently, I leant my head against his.
And for just a moment, he was skipping along the pavement next to me, holding my hand.
I don't mean that he's suddenly taller than you ( although that happens too ) but that he suddenly feels that it's no longer cool to be seen anywhere in public with his mum.
No more shopping together for his clothes - " you always choose ugly things! "
No more meeting in town for a milkshake- " I'm meeting my friends! "
No more sitting together at the cinema- " why would I want to see that film with you? "
No more family days on the beach- " there's a whole group of us going later."
And if you do pass him in the street with his friends, you must absolutely not ever wave or show that you recognise him- " why did you do that mum? You're so embarrassing."
It's not that daughters don't do it too. It's just that their desire to be independent and free themselves from parental control doesn't seem to need such a complete disconnect.
Often our daughter will still let me meet her in town for a coffee ( if I'm paying ) or to go shopping ( if I'm paying ) and she will even still sit next to me at the cinema ( if I'm paying ).
Girls seem to be able to mix family and friends more easily than boys.
And the hard thing with boys, is the suddenness with which it all happens.
Boys seem to lurch up the hill of adolescence in zig-zagging, unpredictable strides, while girls take it more slowly and long-sufferingly.
Our son, Joss, seemed to go to bed one night a sweet little boy, still wanting a goodnight kiss and a bedtime story, and woke up the next morning a grunting teenager.
As his mum, I found the speed at which it happened confusing and complicated and
(dare I say it ) just a little bit sad.
Overnight I had to rethink a relationship that had been based on that special " mother-son thing,":
knowing the things that made him grumpy,
understanding, without words, when he was tired or hungry or out of his comfort zone, knowing when he just needed a hug or a few words of encouragement.
All of that was gone.
It felt as though during the night an alien had landed in my son's body and it was making him speak a language that I couldn't understand.
Whatever I said was wrong.
However I said it was irritating.
Whatever I wanted to know was none of my business.
" What would you like for breakfast?" " Not hungry.
" What time will you be back?" " Why?"
" Will you be home for lunch?" " Dunno."
" You should wear a coat, it's freezing." " It's not. Stop talking so much."
Ninesh, his dad, seemed completely unphased by the sudden change.
He seemed almost relieved that someone in the house was, at last, speaking his language.
No more having to analyse emotions and discuss for hours how to deal with a situation.
" Leave him alone," he'd say, " he's told you he's not hungry." " If he gets cold, that's his problem."
And I know he's right.
But silently watching your son walking away from you is very hard.
Accepting that he will no longer be the little boy, holding your hand as he skips along the pavement next to me, is hard.
To keep him close, I have had to learn a different way of being.
I have had to learn to bite my tongue, to listen not speak, to wait until information is offered rather than to request it, to cross the road when I see him and his friends in town, to interpret grunts, to keep the fridge full, to let him get cold and wet, to trust this stranger that is my son.
Finding things that we can do together, has been hard.
He can go to football matches with his dad.
He can discuss fashion and music with his sister.
He has little in common with me.
But last weekend we flew together to Berlin, taking his cousin, Toby, with us.
And perhaps because it is rare that we spend so much time together, perhaps because I have learnt to value moments that we share, we had a magical time.
We stayed with my cousin, surprised her son for his 10th birthday, go-karted at his party (not me!) cycled around the Brandenburg Gate on a six-seater bike (including me) and ate Bratwurst in the " Mauerpark," drifting across the no man's land of old East-West days.
And as we sat in the plane on the way home, Joss leant his head on my shoulder and fell asleep.
Very gently, I leant my head against his.
And for just a moment, he was skipping along the pavement next to me, holding my hand.
 |
| 3 cousins waiting to go-kart in Berlin |
Thursday 2 January 2014
Elvish Resolutions
So 2014 is here.
And I'm glad
2013 has had too much of the "13," in it for my liking.
To welcome in the new year, we spent yesterday celebrating in true Sri Lankan style, making " short eats," to share with our friends and neighbours
For the day our house was full of chatter, laughter, the smell of spices and the vague sense of hope that always comes with the dawning of a new year.
Teenagers lounged on the sofa, recovering from their New Year's Eve partying, little children fought over who should sit on the beanbag and grown ups chatted idly about nothing in particular.
But somehow, somewhere in the conversation, someone mentioned New Years resolutions.
" I'm going to start running," said one of our friend's confidently.
" I'm definitely going to start worrying less," said another.
" I'm going to stop drinking in January," said one of our newest friends, waving around her glass of mulled wine.
"But today is the 1st of January," someone pointed out.
Our new friend paused, drink half way to her mouth, " yes, but today's a bank holiday,so it doesn't count ," she explained, draining the glass.
" We're going to have more friends round for dinner in 2014," chimed in some others.
" I'm going to finish my website," said out free-lance graphic designer friend.
" I'm going to eat less," said one of our neighbours, reaching for another vadai.
I sat listening, eating kiri-bath with my fingers, dreaming I was sitting on a sun drenched, silver-white beach in Sri Lanka.
Outside it started to get dark and rain pattered on the window.
" How about you Becky?" someone asked, calling me out of my day dream. " Have you made any New Years resolutions?"
I glanced at the kids. They were lying, staring glassy eyed at the TV, surrounded by biscuits and crisp packets.
" I'm going to get the children to tidy up more often," I said.
" I think the idea of New Year's resolutions is that they are meant to be possible," said one of my friends, " that one's impossible. Choose a realistic one."
" You're right," I said, passing around a plate of fish cutlets, " since seeing the Hobbit, my real resolution for 2014 is to become an elf."
" But your ears aren't pointy, your hair isn't long and you can't speak elvish," pointed out one of our guests.
" True," I said, " but those are all obstacles that can be easily overcome. I think the hardest about being an elf will be believing that I can always thwart my enemies at the speed of lightening while spending the rest of my very long life drifting around writing songs and poems and being aesthetically pleasing. That part will definitely be a challenge."
" No point in making resolutions that are too easy though is there?" said someone supportively, " What's in this coconut stuff? It's really nice."
And so the conversation turned to recipes and dinners and the most delicious meals people had eaten in 2013.
And slowly people began to drift home, leaving a trail of paper plates, empty glasses, hopes for a happy 2014 and the warmth of friendship behind them.
" Your ears are a little bit pointy," said one of my friends, hugging me goodbye.
" Thanks, " I said, hugging her back.
But chances are I won't become an elf in 2014.
Most likely I won't even get the kids to tidy up more.
Still, I can keep hoping.
Because the best thing about the beginning of a new year, is that there is always the chance it will be better the old one.
And that's worth celebrating.
So here's to hoping that 2014 is full of dreams and happiness... and just a little bit of elvish magic.
Happy New Year!
And I'm glad
2013 has had too much of the "13," in it for my liking.
To welcome in the new year, we spent yesterday celebrating in true Sri Lankan style, making " short eats," to share with our friends and neighbours
 |
| pol sambol- spicey coconut |
 |
| vadai- spicey, fried doughballs |
 |
| kiribath- diamond- shaped , coconut rice |
For the day our house was full of chatter, laughter, the smell of spices and the vague sense of hope that always comes with the dawning of a new year.
Teenagers lounged on the sofa, recovering from their New Year's Eve partying, little children fought over who should sit on the beanbag and grown ups chatted idly about nothing in particular.
But somehow, somewhere in the conversation, someone mentioned New Years resolutions.
" I'm going to start running," said one of our friend's confidently.
" I'm definitely going to start worrying less," said another.
" I'm going to stop drinking in January," said one of our newest friends, waving around her glass of mulled wine.
"But today is the 1st of January," someone pointed out.
Our new friend paused, drink half way to her mouth, " yes, but today's a bank holiday,so it doesn't count ," she explained, draining the glass.
" We're going to have more friends round for dinner in 2014," chimed in some others.
" I'm going to finish my website," said out free-lance graphic designer friend.
" I'm going to eat less," said one of our neighbours, reaching for another vadai.
I sat listening, eating kiri-bath with my fingers, dreaming I was sitting on a sun drenched, silver-white beach in Sri Lanka.
Outside it started to get dark and rain pattered on the window.
" How about you Becky?" someone asked, calling me out of my day dream. " Have you made any New Years resolutions?"
I glanced at the kids. They were lying, staring glassy eyed at the TV, surrounded by biscuits and crisp packets.
" I'm going to get the children to tidy up more often," I said.
" I think the idea of New Year's resolutions is that they are meant to be possible," said one of my friends, " that one's impossible. Choose a realistic one."
" You're right," I said, passing around a plate of fish cutlets, " since seeing the Hobbit, my real resolution for 2014 is to become an elf."
" But your ears aren't pointy, your hair isn't long and you can't speak elvish," pointed out one of our guests.
" True," I said, " but those are all obstacles that can be easily overcome. I think the hardest about being an elf will be believing that I can always thwart my enemies at the speed of lightening while spending the rest of my very long life drifting around writing songs and poems and being aesthetically pleasing. That part will definitely be a challenge."
" No point in making resolutions that are too easy though is there?" said someone supportively, " What's in this coconut stuff? It's really nice."
And so the conversation turned to recipes and dinners and the most delicious meals people had eaten in 2013.
And slowly people began to drift home, leaving a trail of paper plates, empty glasses, hopes for a happy 2014 and the warmth of friendship behind them.
" Your ears are a little bit pointy," said one of my friends, hugging me goodbye.
" Thanks, " I said, hugging her back.
But chances are I won't become an elf in 2014.
Most likely I won't even get the kids to tidy up more.
Still, I can keep hoping.
Because the best thing about the beginning of a new year, is that there is always the chance it will be better the old one.
And that's worth celebrating.
So here's to hoping that 2014 is full of dreams and happiness... and just a little bit of elvish magic.
Happy New Year!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)