So I have done absolutely nothing all week. Read the latest Vanity Fair (which was brilliant this month) and finally got round to ringing the Inland Revenue to ask where my tax refund was (which I dread).

Kev and I sent ours on the same day all the way back in April. Naturally he got his back with the month. And mine? Well apparently it might (just might) get issued in another two weeks. It's not even as if it is loads of money (maybe 200 quid) but still it just confirms that I must just have a big black mark next to my name at the tax department.

Every year I go through the same thing. Ringing the office for days trying to get past the engaged tone. Finally getting through and getting cut off. Spending another week trying to get through. Realising when I do that I don't have my national insurance number handy and they won't process me (which sounds dubious in itself). This I know from being in this country so long is not entirely necessary if your name doesn't end in Smith but it depends who you get. Starting the process again. Finally getting through to someone and finding they never received your details despite being sent recorded delivery. Resending the information. Starting the whole ringing thing again. Discover that because you only worked half the year they won't look at your documents until you fill in a form stating your activities for the year ("but I was travelling - I mentioned it in the letter" "We'll need you to fill in this form stating that"). Finding out that the cheque has been sent! But to your old addess. Sending in confirmation of said address and request to cancel cheque. Doing the whole ringing up thing again. Oh its been lost in the mail. Eventually finally receiving it.

Its the government in action.

ros from URL @ 1:06 pm