NOW as at all times I can see in the mind’s eye, In their stiff, painted clothes, the pale unsatisfied ones Appear and disappear* as they play blindfolded hopscotch across the minefields of all your darkest nightmares. On this dark winter morn, when each breath taken is like the sharp frosty intake of doom deep into the body, we stride manfully, and womanfully, across the hoar-encrusted field and on down towards the Accountancy Sheds. There to gaze in wonder upon the first year-end results of the new accounting period.
Still, young, delicate, their ink barely dry – this is a marvellous time for both Maureen and me – our breeding accountants have produced their first annual year-end tax returns. Even the delights of self-assessment pale into insignificance as we gaze in awed wonder, albeit with slightly itchy earlobes, on our young accountants cuddling and nuzzling their first real figures as they snuggle down against the chill of this winter morning, their calculators clutched tightly in their paws as they sleep and twitch and dream of double-entry.
[*WB Yeats – The Magi]