Paper paper everywhere

I believe there's a scene in a class Mickey Mouse cartoon where Mickey find himself surfing atop a massive wave of playing cards (ok, it's the 1936 classic "Thru the Mirror" - I was trying to avoid appearing a Disney geek. Happy now?). Substitute playing cards for a variety of technicolour pamphlets spawned from the hellish bowels of the Inland Revenue and you have a pretty good idea of what my flat looks like right now. Ok, you'd probably have to dial down the whimsy some, and ratchet up the soul destroying mindless repetition factor, but I'm sure you get the gist. Reams of paper, covering every conceivable surface, in seemingly random fashion which upon close examination is revealed to be completely random (where did I put that P60?)

It's my own fault. I've had months to deal with this mess, but I've put it off far longer than I should, largely because I've been lacking some vital pieces of information needed to fill out the forms, and rather than do anything about it I decided to do nothing and let my anxiety seethe and fester. In retrospect this is not a course of action I can wholeheartedly recommend. As I recently told someone else regarding a disconnected matter, uncertainty eats at the soul. And mine has been snacked up quite enough thank you very much. One phone call tomorrow should gather me the last details I need (interesting bit of information about the National Savings office - although their help line is advertised as opening from 7am until 12am, they can only provide useful information from 8:30am until 5pm). After that I'm left waiting on one final form to arrive in the post and then I should be able to get my tax return filed just after the final deadline.

Deadlines, schmedlines.