Dialogue: There's no more taxing business than an IR3

By WILLY TROLOVE*

Thanks to Bob, most of you have not had to fill out a tax return this year. Instead, your entire relationship with the Inland Revenue Department has consisted of watching Bob on television as he forgets his change and falls in love with his hairdresser.

Sadly, Bob has not been able to help everyone, so if you are unfortunate enough to be self-employed or to earn a bit on the side, you still have to fill out a tax return. And you have to do it by the end of the week. Or else.

The "or else" is not explained. Flick through Inland Revenue's 92-page Individual Return Guide and you won't find a single word about bankruptcy proceedings or large, hairy people with softball bats who turn up out of the blue and make themselves at home on your front porch late on a Sunday afternoon.

But despite this subtle air of menace, there is no need to panic. Unless, like me, you are as organised as an anarchist's compost heap.

For the better part of a week now, I have been battling to fill out my IR3 form. This is a creative process that involves thinking of a number and doubling it, then wondering where all the money went.

The campaign to complete my IR3 starts well. The IRD number is filled in triumphantly. Substantial and rapid gains are made through the personal details section. The question about non-residency for tax purposes is dispatched with arrogant swiftness.

Then, without warning, the campaign becomes bogged down in income. I have a fair idea that I did earn some income last year. I just don't know how much it was and where it is now.

After rifling through several files, searching behind paintings and tapping the walls to locate my top-secret, humidity-controlled document storage facility, my IRD summary of earnings shows up as a bookmark in a Tom Clancy novel. Ominously, the bookmarked page starts with the words, "Okay, people, the bears are behind us."

Invigorated by this find and acting as if scared by the bears, I race through boxes 11 to 28, pausing only to fill in a few made-up numbers here and to tick a few circles there, so that the empty boxes don't feel quite so lonely. At last, after declining to bring net losses forward, the twin pages of income are conquered.

Before me lies the minefield of tax rebates.

More boxes, more ticks, more subtracting box 3 from box 5, doubling the difference and multiplying the remainder by the square root of my underpants size. Then there is question 32: fishing vessel ownership accounts. Now I know why the net losses are so important.

Out of nowhere tax calculation attacks on the left flank. Suddenly the boxes are coming thick and fast. Subtract Box 34G from Box 34F. Print your answer in Box 34H. If Box 34G is larger than box 34F, print "nil." If Box 34G is smaller than box 34F, tear your hair out and glue it to the nearest wall.

Against all odds, I come through the skirmish with a small refund. It is now just a matter of explaining to the Inland Revenue that I don't want to give my refund away to anyone else.

Finally, like the Marines atop that hill in Iwo Jima, victory is mine.

But as I unfurl the flag, incoming ACC levies start exploding at close proximity. I have no levy indicator. I have no classification unit number. I have no residual claims levy rate. My refund disperses in disarray.

I am meant to refer to something called the ACC levy booklet. With great foresight the Inland Revenue has neglected to send me one of these, but fortunately I can order a copy over the telephone. This proves to be not quite as exciting as it sounds.

There is no cheery Bob-like person at the Inland Revenue. Instead, there is only a computer that sounds very much like it was built by the large, hairy people.

I try to explain my predicament, but the computer only wants to confirm my identity, a process involving the pressing of an endless number of buttons and the injection of distilled frustration directly into the base of the brain.

Eventually, the computer lets me order the booklet and informs me that it will be delivered within five working days.

I don't share its confidence. I suspect that the computer thinks that I am Mr Wally Trollis, a self-employed mobile dog-washer, residing somewhere on the outskirts of Tuatapere.

If my ACC levy booklet does arrive by tomorrow, it will be some sort of miracle. If it doesn't, I'll just have to make something up. In the meantime, I'll be out the front - sweeping the porch.

* Willy Trolove is an Auckland freelance writer.