This article was published in July 2003.

Old Customs & Plenty of Exercise

It seemed like a good idea to submit future VAT returns online. This meant purchasing a secure "virtual" certificate to ensure no-one but ourselves could send such information to the government. Why anyone would want to hi-jack our VAT return is a mystery. So far so good, but when we came to register with the government "Gateway", as it's called, that's when our problems started because the Civil Service is about as computer-literate as a dinosaur.

We had recently amended our postcode but the alteration still hadn't reached all corners of the Customs & Excise department, meaning our first online submission could not be accepted. Strangely, we hadn't received the traditional green paper return, but for some reason the VAT man had sent two of them the year before. It seemed a reasonable measure to alter the printed date of the spare and send in the amended form with our cheque. I should've heard the warning bells a mile off. The VAT man presented the cheque, collared the cash and then, six weeks later, sent out a formal notice of non-payment.

And all because we had not sent in a proper return, they told me on the phone. They could have altered it, I countered. "No, they're all processed by computer," he said. I pointed out that if they'd got off their backsides and let me know straightaway that the outdated return was unacceptable, I could have sorted it within the time limit. But of course, being so helpful would have reduced their chances of imposing a financial penalty. And I told him so, together with a few choice words about a cack-handed system cobbled together by right-wing troglodytes.

Two weeks later we were ordered to have all our accounting records available for the district VAT inspector. My mind instantly spooled backwards to when, some years before, I had found the dreaded Miss Tibet standing in the doorway at one minute to nine. She didn't come in at much under six feet two, she had shoulders a rugby forward would have envied, and teeth that would frighten a Rottweiler. She was 45 going on 70 (stones), and when she smiled it was with a sadistic condescension. She always had the upper hand – a pair of them, in fact, as big as car wheel trims.

"That woman is cold as an iceberg," said Sharon. "Yes," agreed Greville, "with two thirds of her mass out of sight, I'm glad to say." He agreed that her name was quite appropriate: frosty, unyielding. "Like the Himalayas, eh?" he sniggered. "Only I bet there's no him who'd care to lay––" Sharon clipped him about the ear and told him off for being bitchy.

I summoned Greville to the back room. "See those five boxes up there?" "You mean the archived invoices?" he asked. "Take them down and mix them up." He looked at me aghast, warning me that the Accountant might resign. I didn't care. That's the thing about accountants: they don't play the game; they only keep the score.

"And by the way," I added, "where each invoice is numbered, stick an extra one in front of, say, fifty of them. When Miss Ice Age comes, she can have the attic – and all the time she needs to make some sense of this lot."

"But there's no furniture up there," he said. "And no heating." Exactly. The lad was learning. I reminded him that we're trying to run a business and we're not the ones with umpteen weeks' paid holiday, early retirement and a nice pension. I went back into the shop, psyched up and ready for the onslaught.

2 days later I was greeted by Miss Walmsley (no relation to the author). She was in her mid-20s, shoulder-length hair brushed back into a velvet tie that matched her jacket. Silk blouse, simple gold chain around her neck (nothing flashy), small birth mark beneath her left ear. About five feet five, size 10 perhaps. Some freckles. Apart from that I hardly noticed her – after all, a VAT inspector is a VAT inspector.

Greville disappeared. The whole day. He borrowed a chair from Lunn Poly, made drinks for her, cleaned the toilet (just in case), and apologised for having to sort out 5 years' worth of invoices that had somehow been hastily scooped up into one bin liner. Smitten? I'd never seen anything like it. They drank, they laughed, they had lunch together at Rita's (and Miss Walmsley forgave him).

Just before leaving, she presented herself at the counter to tell me that our records seemed to be in order and it was a pity about the freak gust of wind that had skittled our document boxes and mixed them all up.

I told her how impressed I was when she'd advised a customer about the difference between end feed and solder ring plumbing fittings. I would be only too willing to give her a Saturday job. She smiled, "Not bad for a right-wing troglodyte, hmm?"

It was then she told me that my conversation with the Customs & Excise National Advice Service helpline had been taped for staff training.