Single woman’s guide to tax returns

1. Wait until the last minute, but torture yourself for months with the knowledge you should be filling it in

2. Leave your bank statements on the other side of the world

3. Amass all relevant paperwork and get sidetracked into refiling all paperwork

4. Take a break after all that filing

5. Make an unnecessary spreadsheet to work out rental income and property expenditure

6. Pick out a nice pen

7. Don’t read the questions, or consult the tax return guide

8. Try not to cry

9. Phone the HMRC helpline, after it closes for the night

10. Ask your dad for help, but wait until he’s asleep

11. Phone a friend who pretends your stupid questions are perfectly valid, and refrains from pointing out you should have just read the form (thanks Vik)

12. Tell everyone you have maths A-level, and this really shouldn’t be beyond you

NB The addition of multi-coloured explanatory post-it notes makes the form look more interesting, but do avoid the temptation to draw smiley faces on them

Being good

Suffering the January post-flu blues, I resolved to be good to myself. Last week I went to see a movie no one else could stomach, PS I Love You (I have terrible taste in films). NB: when feeling a little lonely and miserable, don’t go to the cinema, alone, to watch a film about a woman whose husband’s died and left her love letters from beyond the grave.

There was some comedy value though as, during a particularly highly charged part of the story, a 15-year-old chavette was frogmarched out of the theatre by a random chap for heckling the (admittedly overly sentimental) film. She uttered combinations of expletives I’ve not heard before. We don’t tolerate such behaviour in Watford. The heroic stranger was cheered on his return.

The next phase of the being-good-to-myself plan was spending £35 and an hour and a half on a massage and facial. I’m a recent and rather reluctant convert to the delights of spa therapy, but it does work. The therapist was wonderfully unchatty so I could enjoy the candlelight, musak, aromatherapy, pummelling and being smeared with weird unguents, unfettered by the demands of polite conversation with a stranger. At one point I did wonder whether it was slightly ridiculous to pay for the privilege of lying, naked and swathed in soft, warm towels, with cold cotton wool pads on my eyes, mud on my face, and another towel encasing my entire head. But it does work. I left wonderfully loose and relaxed.

It was of course still raining , and as I pelted back to the car, passing traffic splashed oily water onto my fabulous boots (the result of a previous, and more costly, being-good-to-myself session). I pulled out on a speeding white van, and then was yelled at by a passing WPC for not having my lights on. I should have tipped the therapist more as, somehow, I’m still chilled and no longer blue.

Rugged, but stylish

Shopping for ski gear, I was feeling all outdoorsy and rugged, and listened interestedly while Helen chatted to the assistant about the relative merits of various torches. The similarly outdoorsy and rugged assistant was clearly impressed with our outward boundness and rapid grasp of the differences between LED and yellow lights, and their respective merits. 

But then we ruined it all by spotting some designer camping gear and cooing over the delightful notion of a wind up camping lantern, clad in a cute flowery design in gastro pub green. I rummaged further and found a wind up radio with integrated torch (which I’m sure will come in useful) and a tiny pencil torch (LED light for clearer illumination close up) in a decided unrugged pink.  Together with my funky new wraparounds, I’m now prepared for anything.

Part of the joy of a new sport is playing with all the gear, and skiing requires an entire new outfit as well as technical things. Aside from the rather lovely Roxy ski jacket and flattering (boot cut) ski trousers lent to me by the ever generous Catherine, my favourite development is a valid reason to wear, in public, an alice band (albeit posing as ear warmers).

The latest addition to the ensemble was a neck warmer, which Lesley demonstrated to me could be worn in either scarf or terrorist style (apparently hat style is just not cool). We were having a pre-ski briefing ahead of next weekend’s departure, and sharing important information about what kind of shoes to bring (I think I can get away with just one pair – an incredible packing dream) and who was going to bring the tunes (the wind up radio, twinned with my iPod and transmitter gizmo is bound to work). Kathryn, Helen and I were also versed on ways to stay hydrated on the slopes. Lesley’s solution is to stand in front of the snow cannon with one’s mouth open.

Kathryn and I are virgin skiiers, skittish ahead of our Alpine debut, and once Helen and Lesley started on the ski horror stories we changed the subject to travel horror stories of sea sickness, cava drinking et al. These conversations leave me feeling like I need to get out more, and on high travel snob alert (sometimes one can’t help but start a sentence ‘When I was living in Hawaii…’), which is why I enjoy Lesley’s description of her round the world trip as ‘my year long holiday’.

We spend about four hours on lunch, which is best use of a grey, rainy Sunday, and then wandered back to the station fantastising about buying a place in Richmond together and wondered whether various boyfriends could be pursuaded to co-operate based on their potential house mates’ average beer consumption. We were early for the train, so had a quick drink in another Richmond-esque pub and then missed the train.

Despite the fact that Helen and I enjoy our regular group therapy sessions on the demands of living with our parents, we rounded off the evening at good old Watford J with calls to said (longsuffering and wonderful) parents, ostensibly to let them know we’d be home for dinner (apparently a universal area of friction between retirees and their homeless adult children), which fortuitously resulted in offers of lifts home. “Oh really? Are you sure? Well that would be lovely, if you don’t mind”. Another dent in our ruggedness.

Grumpy and bored

I’ve been confined to barracks by flu and am lacking in interesting stories to tell. I’ve not been out in two weeks, am covered in aches and sound like I’ve been smoking 40 a day. I’ve been spending a lot of time with Paul but even he can’t prevent me from waking in the middle of the night drenched in sweat (not in a good way). 

Went for a walk today to prevent cabin fever combining with H5N1 (which I clearly have) and causing a global epidemic. I managed one quarter of my normal running route before giving up with sore knees. This isn’t helping my pre-ski conditioning regime.

On the plus side, my poker is improving, and my brother has been developing a parallel career as a smoothie barista, so I’ve been sampling brightly coloured, vitamin-packed concoctions. He and Shona have been working on some fabulous music for her recital on February 21, and I’ve been listening to rehearsals of Irish flute combined with all manner of Middle Eastern drums to create goose-bumping, foot-tapping fusion.

New man

I’d like to tell you about an important new man in my life. He’s been a valued member of my support team over the last few months. Some might argue the age difference could be a problem, but that doesn’t faze me.  He always knows the right thing to say and leaves me feeling happy, satiated and confident. When I fall asleep with him in my ears, I awake hours later, satisfied and smiling.  On the downside, he does see other people and I suspect he’s seeking to widen this circle, judging from his current advertising campaign.

The man is Paul McKenna, hypnotherapist, proponent of NLP (neuro linguistic programming – check out simple explanation here: http://www.karenhastings.co.uk/nlp_cbt.htm ) and owner of a fantastically reassuring and persuasive voice. I’m not after his fortune, but he is loaded thanks to his apparently unending list of books and CDs that make a variety of promises: ‘I can make you thin’ (for anyone who’s interested I can give you details of an alternative and very effective weight loss programme that’s proven successful for me during the back end of 2007), ‘Change your life in seven days’, and (my favourite) ‘Sleep like a log’.

I am not a very enthusiastic sleeper. There always tends to be more interesting things to do. But when I really need to have a good rest, I plug myself into my iPod, play McKenna’s ‘Sleep’ track and wake up eight hours later with my headphone cord wrapped several times around my neck.

NLP doesn’t work for everyone, but it works for me. According to my friend Amanda the hypnotherapist http://www.nottingham-hypnotherapy.com/, it’s because I’m gullible (but this comes from a woman who takes the inimitable Kev the dog, to acupuncture).

Hearty new year

I was one of those people who doesn’t really do New Year, but I am converted. 

I meet up with my family who are already ensconced amongst the bustling, excitable, middle class clientele at the National Theatre cafe. The walk and train journey from home had taken less than an hour so I’m smug and smiley. London may be unfriendly on a typical commuter’s morning, but with the encouragement of shared occasion, many will happily chat to a random (though very approachable) stranger. Less cheerily, conversation tends towards speculation on the best way to cause maximum disruption as an Al Qaeda terrorist (openly discussed aside from use of the word bomb which is avoided altogether in favour of euphemisms, or else uttered in hushed tones).

The Mehta party was looking particularly fine, our game having been raised by our live-in fashionista. My dad wears a suit and struts around enjoying the attention of three women (my mother, my brother’s girlfriend Shona and his favourite daughter), chatting up the staff and being given cups of tea on the house. The final member of our party of five, Magnus, is backstage, sharpening his Texas hold’em skills and changing into stage make-up, breeches and Mr Darcy-esque boots.

His latest foray into the lovey-infested world of the National is a fantastic production of Much Ado About Nothing http://www.nationaltheatre.org.uk/muchado , starring Zoe Wanamaker (the long suffering mother and wife, Susan Harper, in the BBC’s tedious My Family) . She tackles the part of Beatrice with her typical energy, wit and cheekiness. The whole play is full of vigour, bounding and striding, long flowing skirts, shiny swords, and enthusiastic coiffing of fake spirits . The relaxed cast plays happily, and I’ve never witnessed a theatre audience laugh out loud so eagerly. Rachel Portman’s brand new score is well judged, and it makes perfect sense to have the musicians (trumpet, mandolin, clarinet, double bass, tuba and assorted rustic percussion instruments) wandering around on stage and appearing on the balcony. I repeatedly resist the temptation to stand up and point out that’s my little brother on stage with a big drum.

The only black fly in the Chardonnay is a group of spoilt and ungrateful American high school students sitting in front of us, who fail to grasp they’re watching a five star performance at our country’s leading theatre. The good looking jock with the broad shoulders, chiseled cheekbones and slim hips is obviously also amusing company as he had his mates’ rapped attention for the first few minutes of the performance. My irritation quickly overcomes my British reserve and I squeeze his (muscle bound) arm and ask him to shut up, in my most commanding home counties voice. His apology is not devoid of sarcasm, but he did shut up. His companions rest their feet on the railing at the front of the circle, repeatedly (and, I suspect, drunkenly) leave and re-enter the auditorium, and sleep in their very expensive seats. At least this keeps them quiet. All this is distracting during the all important first ten minutes of a Shakespeare play one doesn’t know, and I miss some of the subtler plot points.

This intrusion does however allow me the opportunity to firstly have a quiet grown up word with the group’s harassed looking teacher, and secondly to triumph easily in the exchange of some amusing bitchiness with one of the jock’s female entourage (mini skirt, leopard print tights, very classy) in the reception area. Utterly pointless, but it makes me feel better.

Muttering about the importance of respecting live performance, we pelt over to the Festival Hall in Anneka Rice style, weaving around security cordons and quizzing crowd control specialists on how to get to our champagne (OK sparkling rose) dinner at Strada. I’m not going to go on about it, but the food is fabulous and includes the best duck I’ve ever eaten. The staff are Spanish, celebrate their new year an hour early (in respect of the time difference) and earn a hefty tip.

We temporarily abandon our almost empty main course plates at midnight, and reverberate to the chimes of Big Ben and a battery of fireworks. I have low expectations, having witnessed showy weekly firework displays in Honolulu, but the Thames provides an impressive contrast to Waikiki beach. Red and gold incendiaries shoot off the London Eye, and rockets streak up from boats on the river. The damp air grows heavy with the smell of gunpowder, and smoke diffuses the lights of London’s landmarks. The view is partially obscured by a bridge (Jubilee?), but we have plenty of room to mill around within the South Bank security cordon. Rather than build inexorably to the dramatic climax favoured by Honolulu displays, the London pyrotechnicians tease the audience haltingly like a nervous lover, leaving us wondering if it’s all over before continuing the display. We hug, kiss, effuse and return to finish our dinner.

Dad had drawn the short straw of the designated driver and – politely refusing my mother’s keen offers of help with directions – guides us back through the crowds (‘Are they what you call actual new year’s revellers then?’), the beeping traffic and flocks of luminous police. The female members of the party take the opportunity of a captive audience to extend the jollity and sing a variety of popular numbers all the way home. We touched on many genres including Christmas carols, popular show tunes, The Beatles, gospel, Alanis Morissette, Bohemian Rhapsody (with my brother grudgingly prompting our faltering lyrics, tissue stuffed in his ears and, inexplicably, nose) and – finally – the All Saints. We actually manage to achieve musical harmony for short periods of time, and familial harmony for the entire, memorable, hilarious evening.

Hello

OK, so one of my (many) new year’s resolutions is to start a blog, so here it is. The internal nagging threshold has been hit at a classic moment for turning over a new leaf, and this is the result.

I have a few problems with this. I don’t like the word ‘blog’ for a start. And I have a mild dislike of the notion that a regular person should feel so egotistical that they write about their life and suggest people read it. And I’m a bit nervous about sharing the some of details of my life with the www.

Also, I’m not entirely sure what my aim is (aside from tax form avoidance).

So with these provisos, and the invitation to constructively (gently please!) criticise me on this (and anything else ), if you’ve nothing better to do, I hope this proves mildly amusing, and perhaps redirects my penchant for epic emails into a more manageable format.