View of the Stade from the end of Tackleway
Keats got it pretty badly wrong these past few days. It's been wet, wet, wet: more like Lincolnshire in Bleak House: "The weather is so very bad, down in Lincolnshire, that the liveliest imagination can scarcely apprehend its ever being fine again". Today the rain has disappeared, but a sea mist has blotted out not only the beach but the other side of the Old Town. No sign of Keats' "maturing sun".
So we've been deep in paperwork: UK tax returns are meant to be in by the end of the month, and I felt smug at getting mine in ahead of the deadline. Paul detests formalities of this kind, so there is always a bit of a last-minute drama: but even he has been sorting out papers and contacting his accountant. At the same time, post comes in from the French tax authorities: the elaborate calculations set out on the back of the large form are unfortunately wrong, and I have to write to claim a refund they've conveniently ignored. Just as I think things are clear, in comes another demand - for social charges. Yuk.
As if all the tax stuff isn't enough, we're winding up our little French company. Our French accountants have emailed me a mass of documents. It takes me the best part of a day to sift them through, print them off, sign the relevant number of copies and arrange return packages to Ribérac - one for the accountants, the other for the tax office. This is a load off my mind since it spells the imminent end of my need to continue paying French social charges. The only silver lining to this particular cloud is that, if I can thread my way through another bureaucratic labyrinth, I am entitled to a small French pension as a result of my contributions.
I shall be more than relieved to tie up all the French loose ends: I never felt I was entirely in control of the bureaucratic process. On discussing it with French friends I found that they experienced much the same. Social charges, in particular, remained a mystery to me even after seven years. I understood the basic process but it struck me as cockeyed, and the results apparently arbitrary. What is particularly irritating is the sense that the bureaucrats start with the view that you're a villain, wanting to evade all payment. The result, of course, is that you reach a point where you want to act the rôle they've cast you in.
It occurs to me that the first chapters of Bleak House are all about fog, used as a metaphor for the legal obscurities of the Chancery courts. It seems appropriate that I should be dealing with all this stuff as the mist rolls in...
Antony Mair
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