Weekend? What weekend? Oh, you mean the last two days? The ones that normal people, with normal Monday to Friday jobs spend doing things like the weekly shopping, mowing the lawn, washing the car and getting drunk? THAT weekend? Oh, I spent those days doing stuff for the accountant, you know, updating spreadsheets, downloading data from the bank, checking and cross-checking everything, filling in gaps, making sure everything balances and adds up, that kind of thing. And I really don’t enjoy doing it. In fact, I’d go so far as to say that it’s one of the things in life that I truly loathe doing. I get a small satisfaction from seeing everything add up and reflect what’s on the bank statement, but that’s just the OCD side of me getting a hit of Dopamine and going on a restrained little gambol of joy around the living room. I spent my weekend doing the accounts so that I could have this week free and clear, happy in the knowledge that all of the detested bookkeeping work is completed for another year. Now THAT is cause for celebration. I felt so good when I finally not only sent off last year’s info to the accountant but I also updated the current year’s info to match how he’d suggested I do it. I am on top of my game! Watch me and turn green with envy. I am where everyone wants to be, I have it handled, it’s all done, sorted, completed and put away. I am Organised, the Queen of the Annual Accounts. I went to bed last night feeling incredibly smug and proud of my achievement.
Today started beautifully: a nice breakfast with John, a long chat about what we’re creating this year, some writing followed by a trip to the gym. I called into a café after my gym session to finish off my article (not this one), opened up my laptop and heard the DING of new mail arriving. It was from my accountant. Secure in the knowledge that I was about to receive high praise from him about how fabulously awesome my spreadsheets were and how meticulous and accurate I’d been with my calculations, I couldn’t wait to open up the email to receive my well-deserved adulation.
I couldn’t believe my eyes. There was not one word of acknowledgement. Instead, there was an unflatteringly long list containing SEVENTEEN changes he wants (needs) me to make to the spreadsheet that I thought was the height of perfection. Seventeen. My smugness lay shattered to smithereens in among the fragments of the towering pride in my work. It was a veritable trashing of all the hard work I’d put in over the weekend, pointing out that, in actual fact, I have bugger all to be smug about because I got the entire thing completely ***ing wrong. He’s not even convinced that I got the opening balances right.
My accountant is, I have to say, a lovely guy and he doesn’t deserve all the things I’ve said about him in the privacy of my own head or the nasty things that I’ve been fantasising will befall him over the next few days. He is a genuinely nice guy who’s only trying to help and whose OCD is quite obviously in a totally different league to mine.
All this means that the pleasure of putting fingers to keyboard and creating literary masterpieces is denied to me for probably another week or so. He sent me a second email not long after I closed the first and began inventing swear words to describe him. I haven’t had the courage to open that one yet. I need to get me a strong, sweet tea (and maybe a box of tissues) before I go anywhere near the damn thing.
Hi! I’m Karen O’Connor, hormonally-challenged, menopausal writer, blogger, self-confessed sarcasm enthusiast, mother of 4, wife of 30 years, destroyer of souls... no, wait, that's just in the mornings...