Things I’ve been doing instead of my tax return
Where my fellow procrastinators at?
It’s tax return season and really the season should have come and gone already but in my wildest dreams I will never be that person. I both love and loathe a deadline, though neither feeling will change my approach, best described as ‘cutting it fine’. Despite the 31st January looming and a chaser email from my extremely busy accountant warning that he might not be able to get my books finalised in time if I don’t send him my docs ASAP, I will continue the process of highlighting one line on one bank statement, labeling it ‘marketing’ or ‘travel’ and downing tools, puffed out, proud and intent on rewarding myself with an entirely unimportant (but importantly, not tax return adjacent) task. Then and only then will I return to a gruelling 30 seconds working on the thing I actually need to do. And so on.
For your enjoyment - and let’s face it, mine too - here are the particulars of the procrastination I’ve engaged in to avoid HMRC homework this week:
Organised the under-sink cupboard. The last dribbles of cleaning fluids have been decanted into the new bottles I’d bought anyway, the cloths have been washed, the tea towels stacked and our collection of long-standing, yet-to-be-used solutions such as tick spray, rug cleaner (pretty sure we don’t have any rugs) and oak polish have been put back exactly where they came from. I even climbed into the shower with the large plastic tubs we keep all the above in and scrubbed them.
Sorted Hughie’s toy basket. This wasn’t very fulfilling because my boyfriend got the slightest scent of a bin bag and came running to the rescue of every ridiculous remnant of stuffing-less, slobber-covered pig / squirrel / broccoli in there, along with all the halves of balls and tangled ropes, insisting they be kept. Still, that was a good 20 mins taking them out, arguing, giving in and putting them back.
Steamed all my table linen. I just like using the steamer.
Boxed up my office. I tell myself and anyone else who questions my sanity that we might be moving soon and I’m saving myself a job later down the line. Dear reader, there is no confirmation of this move, no move-in date, nothing concrete. And yet, every pen and notebook along with the printer are now encased in cardboard.
Tackled my inbox. Really, I should have done this years ago. My Gmail has been threatening to overflow for a long old time and the culprits are all messages from tourism boards and marketing manager’s of popcorn companies asking for a feature. I haven’t been journalist-ing for a while and even when I was, I didn’t work for anyone who would have allowed the incorporation of Poppy’s Kernels in my article about Gucci’s spring collection or the best walks in the Lake District. I’m yet to find which directory my details are being advertised on, so the onslaught of new, hopeful product pushers will likely still filter through but at least that will fill some time at the end of the next tax year.
Fixed the freezer. It’s been broken since we moved in. Four years ago.
Oiled the doors. No more squeaky shuts in my home!
Upped Hugh’s walks to three a day. Yesterday, he flat out refused and I had to deep clean his harness and food bowls for half an hour instead.
Finished a book. Immediately started another one.
Sewn buttons onto coats that have been less coats, more flaps of material hanging from my shoulders for several winters.
Returned to cross stitch. No time like the present to revive old hobbies, especially when there’s a financial penalty attached to it.
Spent three hundred hours on Instagram.
Baked and cooked more than I have all year. And documented my efforts on Instagram. The time you can spend talking your friends through how you made the Chantilly cream or garlic-infused chicken broth is an excellent time filler too.
Considered conventional employment. It happens every January, and only in January. I have zero desire to work in an office, have a boss, endure a commute or be a specialist / ‘success’ the rest of the year. Show me one spreadsheet of the money I’ve earned and spent being self employed and watch me Google ‘in-house writing jobs London’, realise they don’t pay enough for me to stay in my house in London and then look up the going rate for foot pics with my fingers crossed.
Tanned my whole body. It’s only the second time ever that I’ve attempted to self tan, and this time I’m not due to expose more than an ankle to anyone that’s not my partner or dog in the next six months. Good job too ‘cause I now look like a piece of streaky bacon.
Written this. Yep, I’ve created a piece of content about avoiding doing my taxes, to avoid doing my taxes. A new low? Possibly. An enjoyable hour of waiting for my self-tan to sink in / not looking at numbers? Definitely.