Tax Disc is hard for me to say…

It won’t be long before I have to pay tax for posting this blog. Tax is salt and the government put it on everything. They grind it out of your wages, then shake it onto anything you want to buy, or use.

My road tax was up this month. So, just like last year I visited the post office with my papers and tried to pay for it. The post office – what a great pic & mix of personalities: Children swinging from the queueing rails. A foreign couple arguing with staff in half English. Five quiet pensioners shuffling through the line – I say quiet, but some of them do seem to hum constantly. A mail carrier wearing shorts, squeezing through the crowd trying to avoid eye contact. Two mums (who don’t know eachother), one of whom thinks the post office is a necessary place to discuss the following with the other. . . . actually, before you read the list, ‘discuss’ is probably the wrong word. It’s more like an indirect broadcast. She is looking at the other mum but is, in fact, talking to the whole room about:

– Where her child goes to school.
– Why her child is off school and in the post office.
– The nature of her visit to the post office and the full details of her “perfectly f***ing reasonable” complaint.

And me, me who just wants to pay my road tax and drive home. Yet, much to my surprise the woman behind the perspex said I could not give away my £165.

“You need your reminder letter.” She said.

“Why do I need reminding? I’m already here?!”

I don’t even like salt but I’ll put up with it if it’s already on my chips. What I’m not prepared to do is have someone tell me to have it on my cereal and even when I reluctantly agree (just to get them off my back), they take my Cheerios and my salt, only to ask me to present a particular spoon before I can ever eat cereal again.

I’m aware this metaphor may have been stretched a little too far. Of course there’s nobody in my life who determines what ingredients go into my breakfast. Hey, take the description with a pinch of salt! . . . . . .or just tax me for every desperate piece of writing I produce.

(If you do decide to tax me, please, just make it easy for me to pay)

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