Tax time is always tinged with sadness. It has nothing to do with the having to account for your fiscal actions once a year. As a control freak and spreadsheeter I'm pretty organised. I have an envelope for my receipts for both my small writing and tarot business and for the day job. It's just a matter of tallying everything up, throwing the numbers into excel and making the appointment with the H & R Block - Tax Accountants.
Every year I march myself down Collins Street to a shabby office next to the glory of a half-neglected theatre. It is here that I have to explain myself to the person who will type my details into a computer and then tell me how much the government think I'm worthy of receiving back. The person who sees me is invariably dressed in a cheap suit that doesn't fit quite right in the shoulders, there might be a bit of a facical tick going on, a mole with a bit too much hair on the chin... They will also be a two finger typist, much to my frustration. Accountancy and typing appear to be mutually exclusive.
Tax Accountants are a breed of their own. They're not the stars of the accountancy world - not the high flying CPAs who run small countries and large corporations. They're not the little bookeepers who go from job to job either. These guys are the ones who Monty Python wrote about. (Monty Python's Accountancy Shanty)
To me, tax accountants have one of the worst jobs in the world. For many, the work is seasonal. It's thankless. You get to deal with stressed people who are bent on stretching the truth. The people in the office don't appear to be a cohesive group.
The office itself feels transient too. Aging, navy, prefab chairs, overflowing filing cabinets, the distince need of a lick of paint, a poster that's stuck on with blue tack and fraying a bit in the edges. There's a rim of dust on the plastic plant.
As you're shuffled into a windowless interview room, you wonder if your experience will be the same as last year. You know it will be - only the misfit tax accountant - perfectly pleasant, though at the same time curtly disinterested, will ask questions in automaton fashion. "How much time do you spent working from home?", "Do you have any charity deductions.", "Hang on, let me check that with my manager.."
You spend an hour with these people. They find out some of your most personal details. You know nothing about them, trusting them with you life in so many ways. It is so much a one way service. The poor tax accountant doesn't seem to get much back from their work from what I can see.
I had a result yesterday. Came out with a couple of thousand dollars in my pocket, perfect for my holiday and the ensuing sabbatical.
But the sense of sadness remains.
My father worked for H & Block as a seasonal tax accountant when I was a teenager.
Did people see him in the same way? Shabby, disinterested little man in a short sleeved, polyester business shirt and work shorts? Something a little neglected about him? I know the frustration he used to feel doing this sort of work, bringing home files, having his office manager regularly call during dinner to berate him, seeing the work dry up in summer, only to come back in June.
I don't think these feelings will ever leave me. Thankfully it's just one day of the year.
Showing posts with label Dad. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Dad. Show all posts
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
Observe / Observing / Observation
The last forty eight hours have been an exercise in observation. Me observing life, observing me, observing reactions - and sometimes quelling the urge to run fast in another direction. Or hit something hard. Very hard.
On the good side of things, I've been cleared to run again - however running will have to be undertaken slowly, cautiously and with reverence to the fact that I was a bee's fart away from snapping my right lateral gastrocnemius (calf muscle). The myotherapist is thrilled with my progress, but has warned me that I'm only half way through my recovery. The muscle may have bonded and the pain has gone, but now it's a matter of strenghtening the muscle again. I'm very pleased, but hear her warning. Great, just in time for Reindert to return to whip my butt, three weeks away from the Run Melbourne Half Marathon. I'm unsure what to do about that. I'll either have to ditch the race, do the ten kilometre trail or run/walk and take the longer distance carefully. At least this injury has won't impact too badly on the goal of doing the Marathon in October. It just means going a bit slower.
The Grounded Dutchman has returned too. I like having him back. However, the way some friends have reacted to his return is comparable to finding out your office has had an outbreak of the Ebola virus. Admittedly, I chose to not go to a birthday event for one of the dream group crew on Sunday in favour of firstly spending some time with Blarney and her boys before meeting up with him for coffee.
He's doing well. Nervous about the slur the accident has left him with, looking forward to starting work, wanting to start Pilates to strengthen bits that the months of Dutch therapy have neglected. He looks a little frail - somewhat reduced from when he left last year. Glen Waverley reckons he's aged five years. I just see that I have my friend back. Nothing more, nothing less.
So it was interesting when Gloria texted today asking how I was doing.
G: You okay P? Viv was surprised you seeing Dutchman. She might mention it.
P: Thanks for telling me. Nobody's business really.
G: True, but why so sensitive if nothing in it.
P: Don't like people assuming things that don't concern them
G: Calm down
P: Not heated, just stating a point.
Viv, our dream group co-ordinator has some pretty firm views on the Dutchman. (as has Gloria come to think of it) And after the events and non-events from a few years ago I know why they're concerned, but I've grown up, moved on and the air is clear. Now I just need my friends to do the same. I love them dearly but sometimes I'd like to hit them. Hard.
The thing with the Dutchman is he needs a friend now - nothing more, nothing less. That's all that's going on. He's my friend, happy to be there. We still enjoy each other's company. He's like an old, favourite jumper - good to have around, even if the fit isn't perfect. Just like old friends are supposed to be like.
There was one more bit of news that had me watching myself. Dougall skyped me to tell me of the passing of Alice's father. He'd just taken her and Jasper to the airport for their flight back to England to be with her Mum.
Alice was close to her Dad and the last few months, watching his decline from the other side of the world has taken a toll on her. She's been fortunate to spend some time with him over Christmas and Easter, coming to terms with the fact that he was dying, being there for her mother, coming to terms with the fact that the outcome was inevitable. Unfortunately for Alice, there's been a bit of death around her in the last year with her Grandfather passing early last year.
I take a step back when things like this happen. I can feel Alice's pain and grief. I know the confusion she must be feeling as well as the sense of relief, knowing that her father is no longer suffering, her mother, no longer waiting. I know that certain sadness you feel when this happens.
What I can't relate to is what it's like to lose somebody you're close to - with whom you have a loving bond. I get the confusion and hurt, but does she feel the rage and questioning of the departure of somebody with whom you had a strained relationship? The anger you feel for not being able to resolve all of these feelings you had for the departed?
I'm glad I can run again. It will give me a chance to work my head out in a healthy way.
The flowers were ordered online this afternoon and sent to her mother's house in Essex. It took me half an hour to come up with the words, 'To Alice and family, With love at this sad time, Pand.' There really isn't anything you can say. I've sent instructions with Dougall to call if they need anything. As they're all over in England, I can't do the practical things like take around food or vodka.
And I'm left to watch myself. I try not to think back fourteen years to when my own father passed, the isolation and abject loneliness I felt at the time, nor of the wholesale grief I was feeling. I try to focus on the wonderful help that I got from grief counselling. It was a blessing from this time - that was about it.
I also focus the knowledge that if the same thing was to happen today, there would be people there for me.
Pand
On the good side of things, I've been cleared to run again - however running will have to be undertaken slowly, cautiously and with reverence to the fact that I was a bee's fart away from snapping my right lateral gastrocnemius (calf muscle). The myotherapist is thrilled with my progress, but has warned me that I'm only half way through my recovery. The muscle may have bonded and the pain has gone, but now it's a matter of strenghtening the muscle again. I'm very pleased, but hear her warning. Great, just in time for Reindert to return to whip my butt, three weeks away from the Run Melbourne Half Marathon. I'm unsure what to do about that. I'll either have to ditch the race, do the ten kilometre trail or run/walk and take the longer distance carefully. At least this injury has won't impact too badly on the goal of doing the Marathon in October. It just means going a bit slower.
The Grounded Dutchman has returned too. I like having him back. However, the way some friends have reacted to his return is comparable to finding out your office has had an outbreak of the Ebola virus. Admittedly, I chose to not go to a birthday event for one of the dream group crew on Sunday in favour of firstly spending some time with Blarney and her boys before meeting up with him for coffee.
He's doing well. Nervous about the slur the accident has left him with, looking forward to starting work, wanting to start Pilates to strengthen bits that the months of Dutch therapy have neglected. He looks a little frail - somewhat reduced from when he left last year. Glen Waverley reckons he's aged five years. I just see that I have my friend back. Nothing more, nothing less.
So it was interesting when Gloria texted today asking how I was doing.
G: You okay P? Viv was surprised you seeing Dutchman. She might mention it.
P: Thanks for telling me. Nobody's business really.
G: True, but why so sensitive if nothing in it.
P: Don't like people assuming things that don't concern them
G: Calm down
P: Not heated, just stating a point.
Viv, our dream group co-ordinator has some pretty firm views on the Dutchman. (as has Gloria come to think of it) And after the events and non-events from a few years ago I know why they're concerned, but I've grown up, moved on and the air is clear. Now I just need my friends to do the same. I love them dearly but sometimes I'd like to hit them. Hard.
The thing with the Dutchman is he needs a friend now - nothing more, nothing less. That's all that's going on. He's my friend, happy to be there. We still enjoy each other's company. He's like an old, favourite jumper - good to have around, even if the fit isn't perfect. Just like old friends are supposed to be like.
There was one more bit of news that had me watching myself. Dougall skyped me to tell me of the passing of Alice's father. He'd just taken her and Jasper to the airport for their flight back to England to be with her Mum.
Alice was close to her Dad and the last few months, watching his decline from the other side of the world has taken a toll on her. She's been fortunate to spend some time with him over Christmas and Easter, coming to terms with the fact that he was dying, being there for her mother, coming to terms with the fact that the outcome was inevitable. Unfortunately for Alice, there's been a bit of death around her in the last year with her Grandfather passing early last year.
I take a step back when things like this happen. I can feel Alice's pain and grief. I know the confusion she must be feeling as well as the sense of relief, knowing that her father is no longer suffering, her mother, no longer waiting. I know that certain sadness you feel when this happens.
What I can't relate to is what it's like to lose somebody you're close to - with whom you have a loving bond. I get the confusion and hurt, but does she feel the rage and questioning of the departure of somebody with whom you had a strained relationship? The anger you feel for not being able to resolve all of these feelings you had for the departed?
I'm glad I can run again. It will give me a chance to work my head out in a healthy way.
The flowers were ordered online this afternoon and sent to her mother's house in Essex. It took me half an hour to come up with the words, 'To Alice and family, With love at this sad time, Pand.' There really isn't anything you can say. I've sent instructions with Dougall to call if they need anything. As they're all over in England, I can't do the practical things like take around food or vodka.
And I'm left to watch myself. I try not to think back fourteen years to when my own father passed, the isolation and abject loneliness I felt at the time, nor of the wholesale grief I was feeling. I try to focus on the wonderful help that I got from grief counselling. It was a blessing from this time - that was about it.
I also focus the knowledge that if the same thing was to happen today, there would be people there for me.
Pand
Thursday, March 4, 2010
That Certain Sadness
One of the joys of Facebook is connecting with people you haven't seen or heard from in over 20 years. I've just finished a conversation with a friend from high school - she is somebody special. One of those people who just got on with things, we shared a number of classes from memory and she was always nice to me. She's somebody I remember fondly from high school - there aren't many of those people about.
This evening she was telling me of the passing of her father, who after two weeks of hell in intensive care, departed yesterday.
It always puzzles me how as a society, we rarely broach the subject of death. It's all too raw, to messy - we don't know what to say - we'd rather say nothing than bugger things up. Most people say sorry and get the hell out of there.
I don't. When it comes to death, I tend to get my hands dirty - I listen and I ask if they want to talk. Albeit gently, I offer my support letting people know you're there. If I can't be there, flowers get sent. Immediately.
After giving my condolences I told her I understood what she was going through - my own father passed away nearly fourteen years ago. We talked.
She told me of the shock, the hurt, the fact that she can't believe he's no longer there, that her child was throwing a tantrum and that her family were all around. I'm so sorry for my friend's loss - but I'm so glad she has the support and love of her family around her.
I wish, when this happened to me, I had a similar experience.
Losing a parent is about the most awful thing that can happen to you. And unfortunately it will happen to most of us. It's different for everybody. For some it happens when you're young. For others, when you're at the end of middle age or later. And it's never easy.
When my own father died I was in London. I couldn't get back for my family or for the funeral. I knew my mother was happily remarried so she had my stepdad and my sister was all partnered up, so they had a support network.
The first I knew anything was up was there was a knock at the door - and there was a policeman standing there. He told me to call my mother. I knew something was wrong then and there. My flatmate had left the phone off the hook in his room, nobody could get through. Then and there, I knew it was either my father or grandmother who had gone. Mum wouldn't send the police for any other reason. It turns out Mum had been trying to get hold of me for more than 24 hours.
After the initial shock, the initial grief, I had a week off work to "collect myself" as my manager called it. I painted out the flat, happy to have a job to do that would keep me busy, but not to use my mind. The odd friend called in the week I was off, but I don't remember seeing anybody other than getting a fleeting glimspe of my flatmate. My downstairs neighbours I remember checking in on me, but again, it was fleeting visits.
The one person who sticks out in my mind was Maya - a friend from massage college. A free spirit and a great drinking mate. I remember her coming over to the West Hampstead flat, making me a cup of tea and telling me,"Well, this is crap. I've got you something to help." In a small zip lock bag was her stash of hash. Seven evenly rolled joints. My instructions were to smoke them if and as required. She would return after a week and if I gave her the remains of the stash back, so be it, if I didn't , that was okay too. She called every day to make sure I was okay too.
It was the best thing anybody could have done for me at the time. A simple, hands on act of kindness.
Three months after the event, well in to grief counselling, it occured to me that my own mother had only called twice, and my sister once, to see how I was going, on my own, on the other side of the world. And part of me thinks that is the part that still hurts the most.
Sometimes, just being there, in what ever little way you can, means far, far more than the silence.
Card of the Blog: Death - a card of great change and transformation. Time and tide. The necessary rhythms of life. The universality of humanity. Regeneration.
I promise normal transmission will continue as of the next blog and apologise for this indulgence.
Pand
Kilometres walked since 29 January: 102 km
Kilometres run since 29 January: 57.5 km
Currently reading: What I Talk About When I Talk About Running by Haruki Murakami, Ultramarathon Man by Dean Karnazes, TS Eliot's "The Lovesong of J Alfred Prufock".
Weight lost since 29 Jan: 0.7 kg
This evening she was telling me of the passing of her father, who after two weeks of hell in intensive care, departed yesterday.
It always puzzles me how as a society, we rarely broach the subject of death. It's all too raw, to messy - we don't know what to say - we'd rather say nothing than bugger things up. Most people say sorry and get the hell out of there.
I don't. When it comes to death, I tend to get my hands dirty - I listen and I ask if they want to talk. Albeit gently, I offer my support letting people know you're there. If I can't be there, flowers get sent. Immediately.
After giving my condolences I told her I understood what she was going through - my own father passed away nearly fourteen years ago. We talked.
She told me of the shock, the hurt, the fact that she can't believe he's no longer there, that her child was throwing a tantrum and that her family were all around. I'm so sorry for my friend's loss - but I'm so glad she has the support and love of her family around her.
I wish, when this happened to me, I had a similar experience.
Losing a parent is about the most awful thing that can happen to you. And unfortunately it will happen to most of us. It's different for everybody. For some it happens when you're young. For others, when you're at the end of middle age or later. And it's never easy.
When my own father died I was in London. I couldn't get back for my family or for the funeral. I knew my mother was happily remarried so she had my stepdad and my sister was all partnered up, so they had a support network.
The first I knew anything was up was there was a knock at the door - and there was a policeman standing there. He told me to call my mother. I knew something was wrong then and there. My flatmate had left the phone off the hook in his room, nobody could get through. Then and there, I knew it was either my father or grandmother who had gone. Mum wouldn't send the police for any other reason. It turns out Mum had been trying to get hold of me for more than 24 hours.
After the initial shock, the initial grief, I had a week off work to "collect myself" as my manager called it. I painted out the flat, happy to have a job to do that would keep me busy, but not to use my mind. The odd friend called in the week I was off, but I don't remember seeing anybody other than getting a fleeting glimspe of my flatmate. My downstairs neighbours I remember checking in on me, but again, it was fleeting visits.
The one person who sticks out in my mind was Maya - a friend from massage college. A free spirit and a great drinking mate. I remember her coming over to the West Hampstead flat, making me a cup of tea and telling me,"Well, this is crap. I've got you something to help." In a small zip lock bag was her stash of hash. Seven evenly rolled joints. My instructions were to smoke them if and as required. She would return after a week and if I gave her the remains of the stash back, so be it, if I didn't , that was okay too. She called every day to make sure I was okay too.
It was the best thing anybody could have done for me at the time. A simple, hands on act of kindness.
Three months after the event, well in to grief counselling, it occured to me that my own mother had only called twice, and my sister once, to see how I was going, on my own, on the other side of the world. And part of me thinks that is the part that still hurts the most.
Sometimes, just being there, in what ever little way you can, means far, far more than the silence.
Card of the Blog: Death - a card of great change and transformation. Time and tide. The necessary rhythms of life. The universality of humanity. Regeneration.
I promise normal transmission will continue as of the next blog and apologise for this indulgence.
Pand
Kilometres walked since 29 January: 102 km
Kilometres run since 29 January: 57.5 km
Currently reading: What I Talk About When I Talk About Running by Haruki Murakami, Ultramarathon Man by Dean Karnazes, TS Eliot's "The Lovesong of J Alfred Prufock".
Weight lost since 29 Jan: 0.7 kg
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