- Elementary Funk
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Assurance of continuance of these tax prefixed hair-lines is slim. Not for the supply, but for the acrid taste.
I sit at a desk in an office with no ceiling, the heaters are set at a restroom-frequent twenty-five degrees. Or it could be the heavy woolen jacket that I refuse to remove—I have one of those makeups that shiver the moment any sort of relief from heat is found. Behind the desk is one lone red wall facing three eggwhites. On the red wall there is a hanging of what would be classed as a painting of white lilies. If they aren't lilies it still doesn't change the fact that you wouldn't encase a painting—obvious fake or not—within glass. On the left wall, the wall with a door—somehow I manage to slam it every time I come back in—is another painting, no, more like a screen print of a painting of a young plump girl praying to some light up above in the top left corner. Opposite this is a wonderfully made photocopy of a painting of a sunsetted sand dune. Above my desk is a scene of some sort wherein the village has started to take in rain and the people still go about their days. An orphaned jigsaw piece has been put in the right corner of the frame. From the lines on the piece it is either the top right corner or bottom right corner of some Olympic inspired plaything. Millie is caught half-arsed. This is all I have to surround me.
This—and if you don't won't to read numbers, skip this paragraph—and a plethora of things to count on the desk. You were warned.
Sixty-two paperclips, forteen pins, one dead rubberband, a crusty, hardened two-hundred millilitre bottle of MarBig Cover-Up - I used the desk drawer to crack it open, a half-sided tape dispenser, nine "Refund of Imputation Credit" forms, four retirees and family tax benefit packages, forteen envelopes - which I think I have to swap with the one the client comes in with, a malformed thumbtack, three supplementary forms, two retirees forms, sixteen taxpayer questionnaires - something for them to fill out based on the experience, one huge pad to write atop, one box of 100s Kleenx Executive tissues, twenty "Non-lodgement Advice" forms, twenty-eight disclaimer sheets - something they have to fill in otherwise they may get audited for odd numbers on their tax return, a commander telephone - played around during the last few hours of station, six and a half bright orange stickers the volunteers have to place on every return they help with, and finally, thirty regular tax return forms. This is just on top of the desk. In the drawers: A-K Whitepages from 97-8 in the left second drawer; below that, the L-Z; below that, the Yellowpages for the Camden, Campbelltown and Picton area from 1995; on the right top, a copy of Women's View from Autumn 98; sitting on the drawers below are the A-K and L-Z Yellowpages from 2000. Maybe I should just have this stricken.
I have four chairs to choose from, they look like something a hoarse voice would encourage you to buy time and time again. I spent most of the day sitting and making calls to clients. They make us at the Smith Family centre do a lot of the work ourselves. One man earnt three-thousand just above the limit and wanted his wife to take his place, another—four messages came from this one alone—wanted to bring in along her son's as well, and as you would, I penned a booking in someone else's day, there aren't any pencils. Another caller said she'd completed the form herself after waiting all for the last two weeks—we have only just started—getting no call back. The last callback I hated the most. The answering machine. I had no idea what I had said as I placed down the handset. Something to be on playback like 12 Monkeys.
I didn't do much for five hours, a reason I believe for my legs to have come down with an almighty twinge of atrophy. It has only started. Imagine if I had been this bored during my Olympic stint.
Saturday, 11 August 2001 - 08:17
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