mostly david ephgrave

Compiling my records in time for the now-extended self-assessment deadline over the past week was emotionally hard for many reasons. The fact the 2019/20 tax year crossed two cancelled Edinburgh Fringe runs - both outside of my control - was bound to make for grim reading, even outside of me losing my dad that year too. It's strange noting the mundane transactions leading up to his death and remembering what was happening then and what would follow. Every aspect was tough, with the pain multiplied by my mum's stonewalling behind the scenes that only worsened when I asked if I could buy her out of the house that we'd joint-inherited so I could live there instead of putting it on the market. And when I asked if we could at least draw up a temporary agreement to cover the month I went to Scotland so that her share wouldn't automatically fall to the person she'd secretly married a few months earlier without telling my dad, should anything bad happen while I was away - i...

Kicking a pint glass of water over a pile of receipts wasn’t the most auspicious start to pulling together my records for my tax return this morning, but it was a start nevertheless. I actually managed to get a surprisingly large amount done, after stopping briefly to carefully hang the receipts over a clothes airer one by one. This was my second attempt at drying them out, which was more successful than the first (taking a hair-dryer to them resulted in an improvised leaf-blower effect). The fact I had to cancel a casting today as my vertigo was playing silly beggars may have made for a less potentially lucrative end to 2017, but it did at least allow me to make a self-assessment head-start; HMRC would be proud of me (if I’d had my records in order in time for the end of the tax year last April). One thing I hadn’t accounted for was the Cat Effect; no sooner had I sat on the floor to go through my receipts in more detail than I felt a paw tap me ...

One thing I've learnt from collating my 2015/16 Tax Return is that receiving a chiropractic treatment costs the same as a train to Kettering. Both services come in at £37.00, which isn't cheap, particularly when one leaves you in incredible physical discomfort and anguish and the other is a chiropractor appointment. But which was the most indispensable? I definitely gained more from having my bad back looked at, as the trip to Kettering was for a gig that, while in a lovely building (a converted bookshop that doubled as a music venue, with guitars, mandolins and ukuleles on the walls), the show itself was very disorganised. It was run by a couple of secondary school students with their parents, for which I didn't get my expenses recouped and came out the other side feeling like the elephant in the room, because I wasn’t a teenager; I tend to walk into these things (when I don't catch the train).  It could have been worse. That £37 t...

In the end, submitting my self-assessment tax return yesterday was very anti-climactic.  ‎ It would have been nice if there'd been fireworks, or a triumphant fanfare bursting forth from my computer. I would have liked to have high-fived the studio audience, or be lifted onto the shoulders of my team. Even the offer of a cup of tea and a biscuit would have been enough to mark the moment, but in reality, all that happened after I clicked 'submit' was a moment's silence while I waited for confirmation that it had gone through, the receipt of a submission code, before setting about the rigmarole of shutting down my computer and packing away all my receipts to move on to something else. That said, there was a slight sense of relief. While I've yet to miss a self-assessment deadline, there's always the worry that this year might be the one. Thankfully, it wasn't. The only other thing I felt was amazement at managing to survive on such little earnings. One...

As is always the case, I’m totting up the figures for my Self-assessment Tax Return at the eleventh hour. I’m not concerned about it, as I’ve got things in hand and the end is in sight, but I'm irritated with myself that if I was just a bit more organised, I wouldn’t have this annual rush to the finish. The problem is however good my intentions are, the last thing I want to do when I’ve submitted a return is to think about getting my records in order for the next one. Then time passes and I forget about it, until before long, it’s the end of January and Moira Stuart, Adam Hart Davis - or whoever is fronting that year’s HMRC poster campaign – is banging on my door (metaphorically speaking). Even though I say it every year, this is the last time it will be like this. For a start, I’m already being shrewder about the receipts I keep (unlike in 2014/15, where I wasted a couple of hours binning ones that were irrelevant, and separating those...

I’ve spent most of the day surrounded by bank statements and receipts, trying to pull together my records for my 2013-14 Tax Return. I have six days until the deadline. I like to keep things close to the wire. I’m not worried as I’m nearly there. I’m pretty sure I’ll have it sewn up by Tuesday at the latest. I’ll then submit the figures and pray the God of Self Assessment (a hideous Moira Stuart / Adam Hart-Davis amalgam) is kind to me this year. If he / she isn’t, I’ll sell a few vital organs to cover the cost. Maybe even the Hammond in my garage. If I get a bill, it shouldn’t be too horrific. That's the plus side to a shit financial year. It’s disconcerting to see how many jobs I went up for and didn’t get; so many dates penciled in the diary that didn’t turn to pen. If nothing else, these castings give a lot to claim back on, though in each case, I would have sooner got the gig too. Here’s hoping 2014-15 will be more successful. I st...

Today I’ve started work on the scourge of the freelance: the self-assessment tax return.   You may think I’ve left it late, what with the deadline looming at the end of the month. You’re probably right. It’s the same every year. I wish I was more organised, but I’m not. I tell myself each time I submit a return that I’ll get my records together earlier for the next one. Even as the thought forms in my head, I know it’s a lie; twelve months later I’ll be knelt on the floor, surrounded by piles of receipts I should have sorted out months ago. Crying. I actually don’t mind it that much. It may sound sick, but I enjoy it. Piecing it together can be satisfying. It’s like low-grade detective work, with lots of stapling. That said, I like to make it difficult. I spent the first chunk of today separating my relevant receipts (from April 2013 to April 2014) from the irrelevant (from April 2014 onwards). I didn’t get to the right ones until after...

Yesterday afternoon, I started getting my records together for my tax return. Well, I thought I did, but I was wrong. Very wrong. Despite spending a couple of hours at it: printing out my invoices and bank statements; methodically working through my accounts, cross-referencing everything against my diary – it gradually dawned on me that every second had been wasted. Why? Because I was working on the wrong tax year, that's why; I was collating my records for 2011-12, when I should have been working on 2012-13.  (A subtle but important difference.) Up to that point I was enjoying myself. I don’t mind doing my tax return because I find it quite interesting; I like looking through my receipts and remembering what I did and when. I was pleased to be making steady progress; happily singing along to the Paul McCartney album ‘Tug of War’ as I worked. As soon as I realised my mistake, Macca was switched off (probably for the best, ...