How Not To Do Your Self Assessment

As January once more swings its merry way into our lives we discover it’s time for Self Assessment.

Many scrungled up pieces of paper must be retrieved from pockets, car doors, wallets and cats’ beds. All year we wonder where all the money went and now we’re about to find out. Maybe. Equipped only with an iron, a magnifying glass and many totally valid distractions we set to. Or find yet another legitimate distraction like those spider webs on the ceiling, that amazing pattern the raindrops make on the window, or spring cleaning the entire house, garden, shed and car.

Despite the futility of spending many many hours ironing receipts, getting intimate with bank statements and deciphering government dialect we know it is all worth while. Yes, we then get to give the powers that be lots of money to squander on sparkly weapons, essential expensive lunches, and trendy palaces. Yes, we hope against hope that some of the hard earned cash we give them will be spent on Grandma’s knee, upgrading Granddad’s corridor hospital room or even fixing the pothole that killed cousin Ray. But look! Lo! Behold! The house is clean, the shed tidy, the silver polished, the unknown grungy thing is removed from the oven, the cats are groomed and well patted and the iron has had its annual outing and really enjoyed itself.

And now that Self Assessment is achieved the real Self Assessment can begin – Why am I here? What’s it all for? How did I spend so much money on cleaning materials?

How to Cope with Challenged Technology

My computer is on a go-slow and my phone is on a no-go. So forgive the sluggishness of this post because… this … is … as …fast … as the words are appearing on the screen.

Slowness is not an unusual state for an elderly computer operated by the hormonally challenged. Either I’ve forgotten what I was about to say, or Computer (whose name has slipped my mind) has a hiatus of recollection betwixt keyboard and screen. We work together in a harmony of pauses.

Phone (whose name is Xiomina) is in a curious state of decay. Every time I ask it something, like ‘What’s the weather?’ or ‘Is it bedtime yet?’ it turns itself off. Xio, however, struggles on and reboots. Until the next tricky conundrum. If I ask her to do something really complicated, like call the chemist, she comes over all hot and cuts me off mid sentence –

‘Newport Pharmacy, Betsi speaking’ (Betsi is a Welsh name)

‘Hi, I’m calling to…’ Xio cuts us off.

Betsi is an elderly woman of possibly delicate construction. I’m concerned she may misinterpret this rather abrupt banter, think there is some sort of pharmaceutical emergency. Only twenty minutes later I arrive, breathless and flushed.

‘Betsi, I called earlier but my phone cut out.’ I panted. ‘I think Xio is having panic attacks’

Betsi, unfazed, hands me my HRT prescription and offers some Rescue Remedy for my friend.

Router Rescue

I had a phone call. A friend needed her router rescuing from its alternative drop-off venue. The doorstep. Of her cottage, In the Middle Of Nowhere.

I was the ideal person to help because that’s exactly where I live. Nowhere is a big place ergo the Middle Of Nowhere is fairly sizable too. Undaunted and ill-equipped I set off. It was a dark and stormy night. Which rapidly became a dark and stormy and foggy night. Undaunted and many miles of meandering, dark, stormy and foggy lanes later I found it.

The router was completely unharmed. I breathed a heavy sigh of relief.

I had been instructed to locate the spare and hidden key and put the rescuee in the house. The key was too well hidden. Or I had failed to remember properly to my instructions. No problem. There was a backup plan. To leave the poor lost router in the shed. The shed was also too well hidden. I was impressed by my friends’ ability to hide things. However the router was beginning to look a little despairing. I considered just leaving it where I had found it but my reputation for cruelty has yet to be established.

I muttered a few there theres and bundled the whimpering piece of electronics under my coat. I took it home and stored it cosily next to mine.

I have texted my friend ‘Router safe’ 

How Not to Communicate Successfully

‘Someone called me in the night! Woke me up!’

‘Oh?’ I said, trying to sound nonchalant. Not my best sound effect early in the morning.

‘Guess who it was.’ Said Man

My mind ranged from friends having mechanical emergencies, other friends having carpenterial emergencies, speaking clocks, ex-wives, and figments of his imagination.

However I have some experience in answering these sort of accusational questions. So I knew how to get a top score –

‘Me?’

‘Yes!’ Bingo.

‘I just called to say I love you.’ I covered adeptly.

‘It sounded like snoring.’ Now this was beginning to have a ring of plausibility. Snoring is what I usually say in the night. Hence Man not sharing bed.

‘I just called to say I love you’ I tried again

‘So I hung up and I could still hear you!’

‘I just snored to say I love you.’

Further phone investigation revealed that I had also reset the background to a charming picture of a blanket, played Enya, won three games of solitaire, called the laundry people, my dentist and an Unknown number. I’m hoping that Unknown better understood my message.

Alexa

The Physicist got Alexa for Christmas. For the uninitiated amongst you she’s a thingy. You tell her to do stuff or answer questions. Sounds jolly useful eh?

We plugged her in.

‘Alexa – turn on the TV’ Honorary Grandson. TV remains steadfastly off.

‘Alexa – um, er, um’ Honorary Grandnephew. Alexa cooperates in hesitation.

‘Alexa – turn off the lights’ Lights remains steadfastly on.

‘Alexa’, (you understand that Alexa is related to Simon and unless you address her by her proper name you lose). ‘Sing Happy Birthday’ Honorary Granddaughter.

I sing Happy Birthday, it seems expedient at the time.

These demands went on for some time. I began to pity Alexa.

‘I’m not currently connected to the internet’ Alexa finally pipes up. An excuse I myself have used more than once when harassed by over-jubilant holidayed-up children.

Not long after that Alexa retreated to the kitchen. Another well know festive season ploy that women have used over the centuries. The Physicist managed to calm her down and coax her into a few jokes and general sing songs.

The following morning I wandered into the kitchen. Alone. Confused. Then I saw Alexa. Yes! Just the woman I needed –

‘Alexa, why did I come in here?’

‘Alexa, what was I thinking?’

‘Alexa, what am I looking for in the fridge?’

‘Alexa, WTF?’

She had no idea. Just like me.

What the manufacturers and purveyors of Alexii have failed to communicate in their well cast advertising campaigns is that Alexa is in fact middle aged. And probably menopausal. She did feel a little hot.