"Thanks for the photo," says Johnny, in his first email of the day. "I miss you. Though I don't much like the hat you're wearing."
"It's a political statement," I say. "I am taking on all the big tax-dodging companies."
"Oh," he says, "So I take it you won't be sleeping with me, then?"
Bugger. I hadn't thought of that. I am doomed to have no sex-life between now and death. Which sometimes can't come soon enough, especially when Miss Chambers has already phoned twice this morning. I'd quite happily pepper-spray her, now I come to think of it.
"How many millions in dirty oil money do your lot hide away, then?" I say. "Just out of interest."
"I couldn't possibly comment," says Johnny. "To quote you and your lot. But you could always go under cover and investigate me as part of your campaign. While wearing no clothes, of course. Anything less - or rather, more - would immediately make me suspicious and you'd be rumbled before you'd discovered anything at all."
Honestly, has Johnny no idea how distracting that sort of thinking is? I do wish Max would stay awake at night a bit more often. In fact, it's probably his fault I am at the mercy of a smooth-talking oil baron, so I don't need to feel quite so horribly guilty. A woman has needs, after all. And not for chocolate, either - no matter what Cadbury and Lindt may try to claim.
Anyway, first I'm a bit distracted by the image Johnny's conjured up, and then the phones go mad before I can reply to him, so my needs go unmet, as usual, while I deal with Miss Emms and her psychotic guinea pig, and Edmund Beales' rapidly-increasing obsession with all things high-visibility. I bloody well hope no *CPNs are going to be made redundant, that's all I can say.
The usual suspects take up so much of the afternoon that, by the time I send Johnny another email saying, "I'm back - where are you?", I get an Out-Of-Office reply advising me that he's now en route to an ex-Soviet Union country whose name I can't even begin to pronounce. And where woolly hats would definitely be an absolute necessity - even when naked and working undercover.
I hold that thought while Greg shuts down his computer and rushes off to a branch meeting. Then I put my hat back on, and lock up - while praying that Josh will be out for the evening, and that Max will actually stay awake for more than five minutes.
You never know, investigating his company might pay off, too. Seeing as it could also be avoiding tax - even if on a much smaller scale than Johnny's.
Talking of relative size, I wonder if the fact that Max is tall and Johnny isn't has anything to do with why one of them is so much more of a go-getter than the other? As well as signifying other, less immediately-obvious (albeit rather important) physical differences?
Maybe I'll start my revolution at home. Just until I get the hang of it.
*CPNs - Community Psychiatric Nurses. There aren't enough of them to manage the usual suspects. Not by a long chalk.
Showing posts with label Tax Avoidance. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Tax Avoidance. Show all posts
Wednesday, 2 February 2011
Tuesday, 1 February 2011
In Which Woolly-Headed Thinking Gets Me Absolutely Nowhere Fairly Quickly.
Bugger. I thought I'd got my mojo back there for a minute, thanks in no small part to last night's Newsnight. By which I don't mean Jeremy Paxman's possibly-accidental use of the Jeremy Hunt word, either.
"What the hell are you wearing on your head?" says Greg, when I walk into the office this morning.
"A woolly hat," I say. "As must be obvious."
Honestly, sometimes I wonder about that boy. He's as blind as a bat when he wears those coloured contact lenses.
"I can see that," he says. "But why are you wearing it? It's horrible."
"Because woolly hats are what activists are wearing now," I say. "And, as of last night, I count myself among them. And, anyway, I've only borrowed this from Josh until I can learn how to knit my own."
Greg stares at me, as I pause for effect before making my surprise announcement:
"I have got my political drive back."
"Let's see how long that lasts," he says, as the phones start ringing.
Then he steals my hat and throws it on top of the bookshelves while I'm stuck listening to Richard Levinson who, as usual, insists on reading parts of the Daily Mail aloud.
Despite this provocation, I manage to resist falling prey to cynicism until lunchtime, when Greg suggests we make an executive decision to turn the phones off and take our lunch-breaks at the same time.
"Want to go for a quick drinky-boo?" he says, before retrieving my hat and passing it to me.
I'm sure there's no need for him to hold it between thumb and forefinger, as if it is something long-dead, but Greg takes no notice whatsoever of my scowl of disapproval. He just keeps talking:
"We can wash away the general hideousness of the mad, the bad, and the criminally insane - before we have to talk to them all over again this afternoon."
"Yes," I say. "But I have to go and buy some toothpaste first, now we've finally been paid. My mouth tastes like hell. I don't think salt is half as effective as Mum claimed it was when she had to use it to clean her teeth during the war."
"Well, d'uh," says Greg. "Of course it isn't any good. Otherwise Colgate wouldn't have made all that money, would they? Anyway, you go to Boots, while I go and get the drinks in. But hurry up."
He looks incredulous when I tell him that I am not going to Boots. And even more incredulous when I ask him to remind me to call Vodafone when I get back to the office - to cancel my contract.
"Huh?" he says. "Why? You're always telling me that Vodafone is the only network that gets a signal in the depths of Easemount. How are you going to phone 999 if you run into Steve Ellington during the next public meeting there? And you love Boots and your Advantage card. You won't get points like that anywhere else, you know."
Greg pauses to let what he obviously intends to be a killer blow sink in, then continues when he sees that I remain resolutely unmoved:
"And I wanted you to pick me up one of their meal deals while you were there. Why would you want to deprive me of my lunch, Mol? Haven't I suffered enough this morning? Why would you do this to me? Why? Why?"
Oh, for God's sake. Greg sounds just like Josh when he gets going.
"Because," I say,"Boots are cheating this country out of millions or squillions of pounds in tax -"
"Allegedly," says Greg, looking around nervously. He really does lack revolutionary spirit.
"Coward," I say. "And get this: I'm sure I read somewhere that the ex-Chairman of Boots is going to be in charge of commissioning for NHS Direct. Probably thanks to Andrew Bloody Lansley. So we we can't let pensioners and young people fight this battle on our behalf - we have to join in and make our views known. Although I am a bit worried I might be allergic to CS gas, given my tendency to Miss Chambers-related urticaria."
"You're bound to be," says Greg. "You react to everything. But hang on a minute, Mol - what's with the royal 'we'? Boots are the only people who stock my hair-gel. And what about Topshop? I bet you haven't thought about that!"
Oh, bugger, I haven't. Until now. Sometimes Greg is so annoying. Where else am I going to find adult clothes that don't absolutely drown me? Marks and Sparks might claim to sell a size 8 but it'd be labelled a size 14 in Topshop. And it'd be called a one-person festival tent in Millets. There's nothing for it, but some creative thinking.
"I shall have to make all my own clothes, then," I say. "Once I learn how to sew, seeing as Mum never taught me how to do that either. I do wish she hadn't been a bloody feminist. A raised consciousness is of no practical use to anyone."
Greg looks at me as if I am insane, but then he didn't have to spend his teenage evenings waiting hand and foot on a bunch of bra-less women drinking wine and eating loads of biscuits while discussing how their lives had been blighted by their husbands and children. (The 1970s weren't half as much fun if you fell into one of those two categories.)
"Anyway," I say, getting a grip on myself. "I'll deal with Philip Green once I've found an alternative source of freakishly-small outfits, seeing as you can get arrested for not wearing any clothes. In the meantime, I'll start with Boots and Vodafone. And so should you. Sod the meal deals, and bugger your hair gel, Greg. This is time to make a stand on behalf of all the working people in this country."
Sometimes I think Pete Carew might be right when he tries to persuade me that I'd make a much better MP than The Boss. Imagine me on an extra-large soap box right this minute!
"Except all those who'll lose their jobs if UKuncut succeed in closing down the shops that employ them, of course," says Greg.
Now I've had three gins, half of Greg's (really horrible) tuna and cucumber meal deal, and the arguments for and against revolution still aren't looking any bloody clearer. Sometimes strategic thinking isn't at all what it's cracked up to be.
"What the hell are you wearing on your head?" says Greg, when I walk into the office this morning.
"A woolly hat," I say. "As must be obvious."
Honestly, sometimes I wonder about that boy. He's as blind as a bat when he wears those coloured contact lenses.
"I can see that," he says. "But why are you wearing it? It's horrible."
"Because woolly hats are what activists are wearing now," I say. "And, as of last night, I count myself among them. And, anyway, I've only borrowed this from Josh until I can learn how to knit my own."
Greg stares at me, as I pause for effect before making my surprise announcement:
"I have got my political drive back."
"Let's see how long that lasts," he says, as the phones start ringing.
Then he steals my hat and throws it on top of the bookshelves while I'm stuck listening to Richard Levinson who, as usual, insists on reading parts of the Daily Mail aloud.
Despite this provocation, I manage to resist falling prey to cynicism until lunchtime, when Greg suggests we make an executive decision to turn the phones off and take our lunch-breaks at the same time.
"Want to go for a quick drinky-boo?" he says, before retrieving my hat and passing it to me.
I'm sure there's no need for him to hold it between thumb and forefinger, as if it is something long-dead, but Greg takes no notice whatsoever of my scowl of disapproval. He just keeps talking:
"We can wash away the general hideousness of the mad, the bad, and the criminally insane - before we have to talk to them all over again this afternoon."
"Yes," I say. "But I have to go and buy some toothpaste first, now we've finally been paid. My mouth tastes like hell. I don't think salt is half as effective as Mum claimed it was when she had to use it to clean her teeth during the war."
"Well, d'uh," says Greg. "Of course it isn't any good. Otherwise Colgate wouldn't have made all that money, would they? Anyway, you go to Boots, while I go and get the drinks in. But hurry up."
He looks incredulous when I tell him that I am not going to Boots. And even more incredulous when I ask him to remind me to call Vodafone when I get back to the office - to cancel my contract.
"Huh?" he says. "Why? You're always telling me that Vodafone is the only network that gets a signal in the depths of Easemount. How are you going to phone 999 if you run into Steve Ellington during the next public meeting there? And you love Boots and your Advantage card. You won't get points like that anywhere else, you know."
Greg pauses to let what he obviously intends to be a killer blow sink in, then continues when he sees that I remain resolutely unmoved:
"And I wanted you to pick me up one of their meal deals while you were there. Why would you want to deprive me of my lunch, Mol? Haven't I suffered enough this morning? Why would you do this to me? Why? Why?"
Oh, for God's sake. Greg sounds just like Josh when he gets going.
"Because," I say,"Boots are cheating this country out of millions or squillions of pounds in tax -"
"Allegedly," says Greg, looking around nervously. He really does lack revolutionary spirit.
"Coward," I say. "And get this: I'm sure I read somewhere that the ex-Chairman of Boots is going to be in charge of commissioning for NHS Direct. Probably thanks to Andrew Bloody Lansley. So we we can't let pensioners and young people fight this battle on our behalf - we have to join in and make our views known. Although I am a bit worried I might be allergic to CS gas, given my tendency to Miss Chambers-related urticaria."
"You're bound to be," says Greg. "You react to everything. But hang on a minute, Mol - what's with the royal 'we'? Boots are the only people who stock my hair-gel. And what about Topshop? I bet you haven't thought about that!"
Oh, bugger, I haven't. Until now. Sometimes Greg is so annoying. Where else am I going to find adult clothes that don't absolutely drown me? Marks and Sparks might claim to sell a size 8 but it'd be labelled a size 14 in Topshop. And it'd be called a one-person festival tent in Millets. There's nothing for it, but some creative thinking.
"I shall have to make all my own clothes, then," I say. "Once I learn how to sew, seeing as Mum never taught me how to do that either. I do wish she hadn't been a bloody feminist. A raised consciousness is of no practical use to anyone."
Greg looks at me as if I am insane, but then he didn't have to spend his teenage evenings waiting hand and foot on a bunch of bra-less women drinking wine and eating loads of biscuits while discussing how their lives had been blighted by their husbands and children. (The 1970s weren't half as much fun if you fell into one of those two categories.)
"Anyway," I say, getting a grip on myself. "I'll deal with Philip Green once I've found an alternative source of freakishly-small outfits, seeing as you can get arrested for not wearing any clothes. In the meantime, I'll start with Boots and Vodafone. And so should you. Sod the meal deals, and bugger your hair gel, Greg. This is time to make a stand on behalf of all the working people in this country."
Sometimes I think Pete Carew might be right when he tries to persuade me that I'd make a much better MP than The Boss. Imagine me on an extra-large soap box right this minute!
"Except all those who'll lose their jobs if UKuncut succeed in closing down the shops that employ them, of course," says Greg.
Now I've had three gins, half of Greg's (really horrible) tuna and cucumber meal deal, and the arguments for and against revolution still aren't looking any bloody clearer. Sometimes strategic thinking isn't at all what it's cracked up to be.
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