Tax Woes

I've been a bit quite the last 24 hours and it might continue for a little longer. My tax form has caused all sorts of freakish bad luck. There are missing receipts for boxes of performance thongs that needed finding. Then there are frantic phone calls to the tax office to ask if I can reclaim the tax on the body oil I buy by the vat. I hate doing my taxes. I hate doing them so much that I have to get them done and out of the way as soon as they drop onto the mat. Should anybody choose to live the life of an accountant, I think they should seek psychological help.

Gabby doesn't have any of these problems. Still holding a Romanian passport, she lives by different rules of taxation. Once a year, she goes down to the local meat market and buys the carcass of a sheep she posts to a mysterious address in Bucharest.

To add to my problems, I had a phone call from my English cousin. He lives over on the east coast, where he farms the land and grows his right wing politics. Randy's an odd beast. Which is why I wasn't too happy to hear that he's coming to visit. I tried to put him off but he's got more push than an column of German tanks.

So, that's me. Doing my taxes, mocked in Romanian, and awaiting the arrival of The Farmer later today. It should be an interesting few days. I'll post as soon as he's settled in.