Open Writing

Until recently I never realized that we had a Income tax office on the Isle of Wight. Like most things, you only fail to spot them when they're gone. The tax office, which moved a mile or two up the road in preparation for the big leap off to the mainland.

I learned about the move while reading my copy of Hansard, as we all do. Our local MP is trying to save local jobs and, presumably, impress the local taxman. The move up the road occurred when the old office was pulled down, along with the bus station, a fast food outlet ‘McWet Fish’, and half of Newport. The address of the new tax office is in Apex House, Dodnor Estate, and has a three year lease on the premises. It occurred to me that this leaves no time to make an appointment. I'd best nip up straight away to see them about my tax.

Between Newport and Dodnor is Hunnyhill, a steep climb made more difficult by the polish on the footholds made by modern rock boots. Therefore, I had taken the precaution of buying some new hobnails for my boots in Worst’s the ironmongers. The ascent went without a hitch. I was able to clamber over the top and cross the main road into the Dodnor Estate, by way of an abyss at P’s and Q’s the well-mannered builder’s merchant.

Now to find Apex House. Easier said then done. No-one had heard of it. Unusal in a small community where they even know what your going to have for breakfast. "Apex? Has it been built yet?” someone asked.

A man at the Hospital store was more helpful. “It’s at St Cross, near to Forest House, the House of Industry for the Island,” he said.

Sneaky tax collects, thought I. You can't find their office to pay. And if you don't pay, it's into the workhouse.

However I did find the office. As I entered a small room a light came on. When I closed the door behind me an extractor fan burst into life. The sound of the fan was masked by piped music from concealed speakers. I recognized the tune from my school days. It was Henry Purcell’s Trumpet Voluntary’by Jeremiah Clark. How appropriate.

I now go in search of a taxman. A lady who was obviously at one time a WRAC Sergeant Major wields a large clipboard as she blocks my way. "Can I help you?'' she asks.

"Can I sit down?'' I ask in return.

"Sit,'' she said, so I did.

I am now asked why I want to see a tax officer. I explain why as best I know how, handing over tax letters, P60s, etc, for umpteen years.

Thinking that the letters and forms will have made her day I sink deeper into my chair.

"You have an appointment?'' says the clipboard lady. "Follow me.''

So up I get and follow her, to be introduced to another lady with a cup of coffee in one hand, and I can't remember what she had in the other. When I revealed that I didn't have n appointment the cup of coffee went flying. Apparently the next available time when someone could see me was 12.45 pm, in an hour and threequarters. Would I like to go for a walk? I said no thankyou and tried to explain the state of my walking equipment.

Down the years I have carelessly lost both of my patellae. Both my hips have been replaced and a knee joint has been renewed, And if that lot was not enough, I had lost hobnails from my boots while coming up Hunnyhill. Couldn't I just sit and wait? And a cup of tea would be nice, but I was told thee was no chance of that.

For the next hour, the lady with the clipboard kept all comers at bay. Not one person got into or out of that office. At high noon I was granted an audience with the tax inspector's assistant. What was my predicamnt? If only I dared to tell him, but I was here to talk tax. I explained that after using up my tax-free allowances I seemed to be paying tax at the rate of 40 per cent. What about the starting rate of 10 per cent and the basic rate of 22 per cent?

The taxman's assistant said I had made a case. He would e-mail the Large Processing Office in the Sky. He kept my original P60’s, saying that photocopies were no good. Then he photocopied them and gave the copies to me.

I went home on the bus.

Six weeks later a letter arrived, not from the Large Processing Office in the Sky but from a tax office in Edinburgh. A repayment was due to me. A cheque would be sent after a revised notice of coding had been issued.

I was overjoyed, until the next post arrived. This would aid that the repayment would be carried forward.

Letter number three said my code was zero and I owed them money.

Letter number four arrived in a plain white envelope, saying that a cheque for £1,000,000 was attached.

The overpayment will be carried forward. When I pluck up the courage to open the mail the next day, my code is now zero and I owe them thousands of pounds. The fourth letter in this saga arrives in a plain white envelope and says a cheque for the sum of £1,000,000 is attached below.

I hurried out to arrange a party for my friends at the Dog and Ferret. On the way to the bank I was involved in an accident and lost the cheque. A van knocked me off my pushbike. Rumour had it that there were tax officials in the van, and they were seen speeding to catch a ferryboat o the mainland.

I told you this was a ferry tale.

And me, I am on my way back up Hunnyhill, heading for the Isle of White hospital to have my other knee fixed.