Human League

There are a few four-word phrases you don’t generally come across: Home Affairs is fun; George Bush is hot; dentists rock my world; bum raisins are delicious. And: I love the taxman.

When I started working back in 1923, I had a vision of the taxman as a mean, beaky miser – like Mr Burns from The Simpsons, but with a bulldog, a collection of glass paper weights featuring dead insects and flecks of dried spittle in the corners of his mouth.

That first month of work, I was jubilant at the prospect of lining my pockets with the beer tokens I had earned from writing stories about pumpkins and odd-nippled ewes.

I was gutted when my salary was shredded by an evil agent called PAYE.

I resorted to busking Barbra Streisand songs at the local market to make up the shortfall on the rent.

Now things have changed. I only play air guitar and the last time I sang was at a Jewish baby-naming ceremony. I had no idea what I was singing – something that went “agggggg agggg haaaaaghhh wallaggghh agggg”. I’m sure I saw the baby chuckling.

And now, instead of Mr Burns, the taxman has become my McDreamy. He’s tall, dark and dapper in a Wall Street way – a bit like Peter Gallagher crossed with Pierce Brosnan – with a proclivity for cut flowers, whisky and the bequeathing of riches beyond my imagination.

Yes, I recently got a rebate. And, yes, Mr Sars took one day to deposit the money into my shrivelled bank account.

Now I need to decide what to do with the money.

Sensible people would suggest I put it into the bond, maybe invest it in shares in a concrete business, or do something silly such as pay off my credit card.

These are usually folk who consider pea soup raunchy and who bulk-buy Gary Player tissues.

They’re also probably true Taureans.

For what horror-scopes are worth, I’m a Taurean, which I find disturbing. They are often painted as boring and bovine, lazy and possibly fat. They are routine people who are fond of opera and Excel spreadsheets. I have visions of them sitting on couches in oversized jumpers, eating takeaways while watching The Shawshank Redemption and working out their budgets.

I do cook with too many herbs (apparently a Taurean trait) and I’m fond of nice fabric, but when it comes to money, I’m an Aquarian on an acid trip.

If I have it, I spend it – and bugger those senile years when I’m drooling into my collar, destitute and living inside an empty Coke can.

However, I am determined to spend this gift wisely.

I could buy a motorbike. For years, I’ve clung onto the back of my husband’s bike as we’ve tackled roads dirtier than David Duchovny.

On one trip, I opened 43 farm gates, and grew tired of seeing my bobbing lollipop reflection in the back of my husband’s helmet.

Part of me does fancy whizzing along on my own bike. I know how to change gears and brake and once rode up a mountain pass with B clasped to the back of me like a weird koala.

He said I was cornering too fast. I didn’t tell him I have no idea how to steer.

I could also blow the money on clothes, but I have more outfits than Lady Gaga – sans the lobster claws and dresses made of ham. I could put it towards an island holiday, but all I’d have to show for it would be a peeling back, a 10-day hangover and a collection of woven curios that resemble constipated elephants. I could get my face lasered. Or install a pool. Or give the money to charity.

But for now, I’m going to entrust my funds to the bank man – even though he looks like Danny De Vito, has ink-stained hands and a moustache that smells of rarebit. I’ve put the money into a fixed deposit account. Because I know myself. If I have access to it, I’ll be forced to hide shopping bags of too-small dresses and books on bread-making in the back of the cupboard, lest my husband sees them. I will order takeaways every night and become too fat for oversized jumpers. I will blow thousands on opera music I think I should like, but hate.

And when I’m down to my last cent, I won’t be able to warble Barbra Streisand. The best I’d be able to do would be a stirring rendition of I Like To Moo-ve It, Moo-ve It, complete with Madagascar butt moves.

But even then, I’d be too decrepit and unaccompanied to give it horns. So for the next 30 days at least, I will endeavour to remain bullish.