Open Writing

“Let an accountant in your life and your spontaneity is through
He’ll not let you redecorate your home, from the cellar to the dome
And then go on to the enthralling fun of organising you.
Let an accountant in your life
I shall never let an accountant in my life” *

But I did didn’t I. There I was merrily backpacking my way around the world with nothing more than my worldly possessions in a bag, a few dollar bills and my Bachelor o’ Farts degree to my name when I went and fell for an accountant. My mother reckons that subconsciously I chose him because he is good at the very thing I am hopeless at –numbers and finance. Perhaps she is right but I prefer to think of that as an oversimplification.

There are of course advantages to being married to one’s financial advisor. For starters, thanks to him, I actually have some money to manage and come tax time – well, why have a dog and bark yourself? Every scrap of paper from the past ten years is perfectly filed in the correct category in alphabetical and date order. I can produce any warranty, receipt or invoice requested of me in a matter of mere seconds.

However, this filing business can be taken too far. I find that the contents of grocery cupboards and fridges are suddenly filed. The linen is magically neatened and folded by the same cupboard fairy. The dishwasher is permanently sensibly organized. The margarine is scraped in geometric lines, the hosepipe is arranged in perfect concentric circles, cereal packets are wedged down firmly and precisely and the bread and cheese are cut into militant rows. One night, as the resident accountant tucked his son into bed, the covers turned down an equal width and the sheets smoothed over for wrinkles, I heard our son say, “Goodnight. I don’t need filing thanks, Dad.”

Then there is the herculean task of training me. I dread the, “There’s a credit card slip missing!” call at each month end. Like an errant school girl being sent from the headmaster’s office I run off to tip out every draw and handbag until I find it. After twenty years I have become wiser and I now line the slips up in advance with helpful or even the occasional sarcastic comments (I just can’t help myself) as to what was purchased, across the top.

I find myself rebelling in small, pathetic ways in an attempt to keep the flame of spontaneity alive. If asked for the time I reply, “3 o’clockish”, deliberately being non specific. “What time should I take the pie out of the oven?”

“Oh, when it is brown.” Such replies drive the numerically competent crazy. Yesterday, in defiance I went against the flow in the supermarket. I started at aisle twenty-two and worked backwards to aisle one even though it meant that the ice cream had melted before I reached the checkout.

This training must be rubbing off because I have started to invent some of my own economic acronyms. My FIPS index stands for ‘Fathers in Parks & Supermarkets.’ This index is in direct proportion to the unemployment index. As the unemployment rate goes up, so too does the number of dads stressed out with minding the kids at the park or trying to do the shopping with belligerent toddlers in tow.

I learnt about financial acronyms when my husband accused me of LIFOing his shirts in the ironing basket. For the uninitiated this stands for Last In, First Out which means that I was taking the shirts from the top of the ironing pile instead of the bottom. Apparently I am supposed to FIFO them or First In, First Out. How he could tell, I do not know as every one of his shirts is exactly the same and, here’s the surprise, all plain white. If he’s not careful I shall go passive aggressive on him and FISH them. That’s another one of my newly acquired acronyms. It stands for First In, Still Here.

* With apologies to “I’m an Ordinary Man”, My Fair Lady