Virginia Ironside

‘I’m a little old lady living on my own. I’m absolutely petrified. I can’t sleep for fear of the Alsatians slavering at my door. I have had to go to my doctor. I am a wreck’

It all started before Christmas. A very nice lady called Flo rang me from the tax office. She was worried she hadn’t received the £10,000 that I owed them. ‘Was there a problem?’

I said no, there wasn’t a problem because I had already, like the good girl I am, paid it on the dot. On the 31st of July last year to be precise. It turned out that, although I had paid it, I’d paid it into the wrong account – my VAT account.

‘Not to worry, dear,’ she said. ‘We’ll find it and transfer it. A very common mistake.’

A few weeks later, I got another call from another old dear, this time called Annie. ‘Just checking – we can’t find your payment, dear,’ she said. ‘Now, not to worry. We’ll find it. But could we have a copy of your bank statement?’

‘Of course,’ I said obligingly, preparing to send her a scan. I also furnished her with the references for the payment, sort code and account number, and described the birthmark on its right thigh, just to make sure it was identified correctly.

‘That’s lovely, dear,’ she said, when she’d received it and had rung me again to reassure me. ‘There’s nothing to worry about.’

‘Are you sure there’s nothing to worry about?’ I asked. I wasn’t so sure this time.

‘Nothing at all. Happens all the time. Don’t you lose a wink of sleep, dear. Take care.’

There were a few more calls from puzzled tax people unable to track it down until, finally, starting to feel ever so slightly anxious, I put my accountant onto the case.

He chuckled reassuringly. ‘Not to worry,’ he said. ‘I’ll take care of that. They’ll find it. Just send me a scan of your bank statement, a reference number, the bank account sort code it was going to, your bank account sort code, their bank account number, your bank account number, your national insurance number and your mother’s maiden name and the date of your first cat’s death.’ Or something like that. I duly provided the gen. ‘And by the way,’ he said. ‘There’s absolutely nothing to worry about. Everything’s under control.’

So imagine my horror when, a few weeks later, I got this letter from the debt management team of my bank.

‘Our records show,’ I read, ‘that you have an amount of self-assessment tax that’s overdue. If you don’t pay or contact us, we can take action to recover the amount you owe … in certain circumstances, taking money directly from your bank account or by seizing your goods and selling them at public auction. We can charge fees for seizing your goods; so, if you don’t act now, it could cost you more money … We will be checking to see how long it takes for you to respond to this letter.’

Worry? Well, I couldn’t stop worrying. It was the word ‘seizing’ that got to me. My accountant was now away, of course. So I rang the tax office who said that, although they sympathised, there was nothing they could do. I should ring the debt management team.

‘Why should I?’ I said. ‘You know the situation. You’re looking for the money. You know I’ve paid it – just into the wrong account. You’re the ones who put these tattooed thugs on to me; you call them off.’

‘Only you can do that,’ said the tax woman. ‘We can’t ring them directly.’

‘But you put them on to me!’ I squawked.

‘We have no way of contacting them. It can only be done through another outside line.’

‘Well, I’ve got an idea,’ I said, icily. ‘You’ve got a mobile, right? You walk out of the office, nip down to the street and ring them yourself. I can give you the number. And you tell them to lay off.’

She laughed, in an understanding way as if I’d made a joke.

So I said, ‘Look, it’s all very well for me – I’m a confident woman, but what if I were a little old lady…?’ Then I changed my tack. ‘Look,’ I said. ‘I’m a little old lady living on my own. I’m absolutely petrified. I can’t sleep for fear of the snarling Alsatians slavering at my door. I have had to go to my doctor. I am a wreck.’

In the end, I rang the debt management people and they said that they’d lay off the heavies for a month. And my accountant, now back from his hols, continues to tell me, ‘Don’t worry, Virginia. Everything will be all right.’

Oh, really? What’s that sound of howling and barking outside my door, then?

This is Virginia Ironside’s last column. From next month, she takes over from Mary Kenny as The Oldie’s agony aunt.