Mrs Trefusis and I debated the fraught subject of correspondence with the Revenue, sorrowfully.
"Why" she said "Does one never get NICE correspondence from the Inland Revenue? Imagine if they wrote:
Hope you had a nice Christmas and new year break and that 2011 is treating you well. Awfully sorry about this but there's a little local difficulty with the tax... do you think you could give us a call. If you can pluck up the courage to call us today, we'll knock £50 off the bill as a gesture of encouragement. love The Tax (wo)Man"
She is quite right. I would respond far better to this softly, softly approach.
(On reflection, that might not be true, but the impenetrable 8 point type is not particularly conducive to feelings of urgency and contrition).
Other minor tragedies:
1. I set fire to my pashmina tassles whilst making homemade chicken nuggets from an organic chicken breast from my local market, which has to be one of the most middle class accidents possible. Sadly, the breadcrumbs were straight out of a packet from the supermarket, rather than gently toasted Poîlane crumbs, or organic pinhead oatmeal. I lose several points, right there. Suggestions for even more middle class accidents are welcome (Miss Underscore has a nice line in middle class injuries, involving some kind of scented candle injury, but I can't bloody find it now).
2. I have had to wash my children's hair, they smelled like tramps. I tried to kiss one on the tram and recoiled, I am not sure what they have been rubbing against at the gulag, but it's not right. There was a lot of chat from Fingers about thoraxes and abdomens and other insecty stuff, but I hope the two are not connected.
I try not to groom them when I can avoid it, it is dangerous, they go mad with the excitement of lather, but it was unavoidable. It was as unspeakable as usual, sloshings of water everywhere, screeching at the soap in the eyes, me flailing in panic. When you can remove your hair and wash it conveniently in the bathroom basin, you are ill-prepared for hair attached to heads. I do not have this excuse with their fingerclaws, that's pure superstitious terror. Anyway, I reckon it's now the CFO's turn for the next 6 months.
3. It is Wednesday, this needs no further explanation. I had two industrial muffins for lunch, yet I smell mysteriously of Old El Paso fajita mix, and all I have to show for today is four envelopes stuffed with administrative bucks I am trying to pass. I have had two baths. Baths are my main entertainment these days. Our bath is well stocked with Hot Wheels Colour Change Monster Cars (do you have small children? Do you have these? If the answer to 1 is yes, and 2 is no, you are missing a trick. This is not a sponsored post, I just like putting cars shaped like spiders and stingrays in the freezer, and then under the hot tap, for kicks), which provide me with excellent low cost entertainment, and if I put enough cheap nasty bath salts and dead cormorant scented powdered seaweed in, I can pretend it's equivalent to a diet.
However, look: Hungover Owls has become a self-fulfilling prophecy. Joy. "German police pick up drunken owl" is likely to remain my favourite headline for some time.
I am quitting while I am - and I use the term extremely loosely - ahead. I would advise you to do the same.