I got a payment reminder from the Tax Office yesterday: only a month left before the deadline runs out and we thought we just let you know. Thanks, I had n't forgotten. I've set aside roughly what I think I'll have to pay, and God willing, it'll more or less meet what it is I have to pay once my friendly bookkeeper has worked out what that actually is.

Despite it only being a reminder, an in-case-you-forget aide memoire, there's always a sense of ju-ju with any brown paper envelope from the Tax Office. I always leave these letters unopened until the next morning when I can crash to the ground in a swoon (they want how much !); let the condemned man enjoy a decent night's sleep is what I say.

Still, some unfortunate magic weaves it's way out of even an unopened letter from the Tax Office to infect your sleep, to make you sweat, to make those dreams alarming and uncomfortable. I woke up at the worst time this morning - the wee small hours - consumed with the fear that I'll never pay my mortgage off. Where could that have come from but that brown paper envelope...?