A Devious Tax Plan

I promise myself every year that I'll get all my tax shit together in April so I can avoid a last-minute panic in January. Never happens though. April is for writing poetry about daffodil fatigue and elderflower anticipation, not sifting through Office World and Total Garage receipts.

This year I'm really cutting it fine. The width of a chive. This means I am having to use this sacred day for the most mundane of activities. Heavens no! I need a plan. And by Jiminy (my imaginary accountant) I concoct one! It's a corker of an excuse for not filing my tax return in on time - I have a solar calculator!

I will ring the Inland Revenue and inform them that I own a solar calculator and due to a dearth of sun of late I've been unable to charge it up. It's as dead as a dodo's do-nut. Therefore I've been unable to tot up all my figures. 

Genius! What else could they say apart from. "Okay Mr Lancini, we'll waiver the £100 fine, wait until we've had some sunny spells and expect your return in a few weeks after that."

I throw the receipts to the floor, whip out the green Bic Biro and start waxing lyrical about daffodil anticipation.

Should I Compare Thee To A Winter's Compere

I've been asked by Dave Oates to compere a music night and keep people entertained in between acts.

Compere? Me? What on earth would I do?

"I know!" I say to myself.

"What?" I eagerly reply.

"Well, you know how you're really not keen on impressionists?"

"What, stuff like Rory Bremner or that guy who looks a cross between Rory Bremner and John Motson?"

"That kind of thing."

"Yes. What of it?"

"You should have a go at it yourself. Might change your perception of it."

"But it's happening tomorrow. I haven't time to work on a routine."

"Adrian, what day is it today?"

"Friday."

"And what are Fridays for?"

"Lying in til mid-morning, going for a heavy-on-the-mustard fry-up, chillaxing and then keeping the breweries in healthy profit down the pub."

"No Adrian, Friday's are for exploring and broadening horizons. Trying new things. Challenging your preconceptions of life."

"Are they?"

"Yes."

"Right you are. I'd better start working on a routine then. By the way you do a great impression of me?"

"Do I?"

"You do. In fact I can't tell us apart. It's uncanny. Maybe you should do the impressions instead?"

"But it's happening tomorrow. I haven't time to work on a routine."

"Adrian, what day is it today?"

"Friday."

"And what are Fridays for?"

"Lying in til mid-morning, going for a heavy-on-the-mustard fry-up, chillaxing and then keeping the breweries in healthy profit down the pub."

"No Adrian, Friday's are for exploring and broadening horizons. Trying new things. Challenging your preconceptions of life."

"Are they?"

"Yes."

"Right you are. I'd better start working on a routine then. By the way you do a great impression of me?"

"Do I?"

"You do. In fact I can't tell us apart. It's uncanny. Maybe you should do the impressions instead?"

"But it's happening tomorrow. I haven't time to work on a routine."

"Adrian, what day is it today?"

We'll Have One Fiat Punto And Two Spoons Please

One way of cutting down on spends to help facilitate a non-working Friday is to car share.

Just find someone, preferably a friend called either Ben or Jo, who needs a car when yours normally just sits on a gravelly drive. Draw up a contract, split all the costs, design a petrol log with silly sections such as 'Music played whilst driving', 'Roadkill encountered' and 'Degree of feeling that own limbs have shortened on journey' and away you both go!

All you have to do is just keep in text with each other about when you need it and occasionally leave each other little presents, such as Cadbury's Creme Eggs, on the dashboard.

Some say that car sharing, i.e not always having access to a car, restricts one's freedom but if walking a few miles to the shops, making a deeper connection with one's immediate environment, pleasantly daydreaming whilst staring out of the windows of buses or trains and saving around £864 a year is restricting my freedom then cut me out a fast lane and let me have it baby!

Graffiti For Moles

MOLEY LIVES IN A HOUSE

So goes a piece of Graffiti on a prefab shed thing beside the tracks as you leave Oxford station heading towards Long Hanborough, Charlbury, Kingham, Moreton-in-Marsh, Honeybourne, Evesham, Pershore, Worcester Shrub Hill, Worcester Foregate Street, Malvern Link, Great Malvern, Ledbury and Hereford.

Maybe it was written by a mole trying to embarrass a fellow mole because he was living in a human dwelling. Thing is, if he was a mole, why would fellow moles call him Moley? We don't call our fellow human beings, Human Beingy or Manny and Womanny. Therefore 'Moley' must be human and either:
a) looks like a mole
b) has the surname Mole
c) has a face full of moles
d) be very similar in personality to the Sue Townsend character Adrian Mole
e) be practically blind and pointy faced with big burrowing paddles for hands
f) be extremely fond of holes

This does however pose the question, if he is human then why make a point that he lives in a human dwelling? Most human beings live in human dwellings. Why is this graffiti worthy? We wouldn't attack our enemies or try to ridicule our friends by painting on a wall 'Shaun eats tomatoes' or 'Terry Pontack wears blue jeans'.

It really is quite a perplexing piece of public 'outing'.