The Words of the Mouth

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  Back in Scotland, I experienced a bizarre sense of culture shock: ten thousand quid’s worth of bills, and the trenches were still there, muddier than ever. On top of all that, the Inland Revenue hit me with a demand for eleven thousand pounds. This was because of our failure to pay any tax over the last eight years.

  Knowing how tenacious the tax people are, I feared the worst: the end of the road for the Mill. But through an accountant, I arranged a meeting with the tax officer.

  On our way to his Office, I noticed a flowerbed outside brimming with daffodils.

  On impulse, I picked eight.

  As we entered the office of the senior inspector, I mustered all the coolness and savoir-faire I had and presented them to him.

  “There’s some flowers for your desk,” I said, and added jokingly, “and there’s a fiver up every stem.”

  He seemed about to burst into tears.

  “Do you know that I’ve worked forty years as a taxman and now I’m about to retire and I’ve been offered colour televisions, stereos, holidays in Barbados – but nobody has ever given me a bunch of flowers.”

  He started telling story after story about all the things people did to avoid paying tax. Many of them were things I had done. I began to fear he had rumbled me, that this was an elaborate game of cat-and-mouse, so I said nothing, sitting there with arms crossed defensively.

  When he had finished, he presented us with a revised bill. The total was eight pounds.

  I like to think acting on that impulse saved us from collapse.

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