You catch me at the end of the VAT quarter, frantically chasing invoices while hiding from our accountant, so on that basis my first target is the horribly complicated UK tax system. Then burn down our benefits system, letting go of the complicated nonsense and making it fit for modern life. To do this would of course depend on ditching our political class who, since they’ve never run a business, worked freelance or been on benefits, are far too snugly insulated from the madness they so casually wreak to do anything about it. For the record –
I’m not up for literally burning people but am confident something pertinently and publicly symbolic can be arranged.
“It’s time to reassert control over our white goods: I’ll empty the washing machine/dishwasher/microwave, shut the fridge and charge the damn phones when I’m ready.”
After a bracing start, I’d move on to stuff that bleeps. It’s time to reassert control over our white goods: I’ll empty the washing machine/dishwasher/microwave, shut the fridge and charge the damn phones when I’m ready. Not at 2am. Dogs with spiked collars have to go. Cats only escape because I fear the retribution of my cat-loving friends. Just keep the buggers away from me before I change my mind.
A quick coffee break, and onto the avoidance of waste. Cheap plastic. Don’t burn it – please God – just don’t make it in the first place. When it breaks as it is lifted out of the box, breaking one of my children’s hearts, I rage at our mass stupidity. Perhaps we can burn the business plan of everyone who seeks to make money out of objects that will never serve their stated purpose.
After lunch are some personal issues I’d like to get straight: people I did not give birth to who call me Mummy, people who call in sick on a Monday because they don’t fancy it, bell peppers (the devil’s vegetable), automated check outs and the dreaded ‘bagging area’, ‘must-buy’ lists of pretty but useless stuff, mass storage centres and people who stand on the left. Anyone who informs me that their child is extremely gifted.
To end the day on a high are the big, hairy buggers. The bullies and psychos have to go – Gordon, Fred, Bob, Terry – you know who you are and your ‘work’ is done. All of those inspired to be like you can follow in an orderly line. Call centres and automatic messages can be torched: ‘dial the sixth letter of the password’, you know, the one you agreed to twelve years ago and have never thought about since, only to learn that ‘you are the twenty-seventh person in the queue, thank you for your patience’.
And just before cocktail hour I’d hurl in Ofsted: yes you lazy sods who have not bothered to inspect our local nursery for a full half term, so it cannot operate. Please show up soon or I might forget our fire is supposed to be symbolic.
