John asked me.
No, I told him I would.
Let’s get this straight.
Because, given that we’ve run though my book advance as though it was on a self-destruct timer, we’re now living off him. And I’ve never lived off any man (other than my dad…thanks dad!). John paying for stuff – as in paying for everything – is totally novel. It’s taken a while to get used to and makes me distinctly uncomfortable…so uncomfortable I have cut my massage excess to just once a fortnight and resorted to cutting my own fringe.
(with my two tone roots and my hacked fringe I could audition for a part in Eastenders.)
Even when I was on maternity I paid my way. I’ve always earned the same or more than John. I went to a school where we were indoctrinated with the belief girls could do anything better than boys. I’ve always believed that as a woman financial independence is paramount.
This having to rely on John has been a tough call for me…no really.
Really. (As she reaches for the ice-cream with one hand and speed dials the masseur with the other).
And so even though riches are of course – let’s not even worry about it, it’s bound to happen – coming to me in the form of book royalties, film deals, Barbie merchandising deals (I will have no ethics when they wave that cheque in my face) at the moment I’m broke, so my token gesture to say thanks to John for bearing the load is to offer to do his accounts.
The joke may be on him when it comes around to submitting accounts to the taxman.
I sat at my desk with his mountain of receipts and I thought ‘I can do this. Yeah, this is novel…oooh, now where’s excel…ok, spreadsheet thing how do you work again? Now um, right, um…what’s this symbol?’
And then after five minutes I got up and got some ice cream.
When I sat back down I started remembering my other life, when I used to run multi million pound projects. Yeah. I know. Mental right?
I used to play with numbers every day of my life. And I was good – I knew how far to play the creative accounting game (well, ok normally I would play it too far and our amazing finance director would arch his eyebrow in my direction and I would wheedle and then come up with some great creative expression for him to use in exec meetings and then it would all be fine). I kind of miss those days where I could bullshit over a spreadsheet almost as though I was gearing up for a future life creating paranormal young adult novels.
But still, as I sit here buried under a mountain of receipts (with an empty g&t glass beside me) I do shake my head in wonder that I actually used to do this as part of a 9-5 job. Urgh, is all I can say. Once more I am reminded of how spectacular life is these days.
And I’ve only managed to tally up two months’ worth and I’m bored already. John won’t let me be creative with his receipts (why can’t we submit massages and pilates lessons as a work expense?)
Time to play on facebook and twitter. I do so like my life. Have I mentioned that already?