My my, that was no help at all
THIS is a mental health warning. Beware of an insidious virus named myIR. It emerged from a laboratory run by what everyone calls ‘‘the tax department’’ but which cloaks its nefarious activities under the nom de guerre Inland Revenue.
The tax people will tell you that myIR ‘‘has been informing visitors about topics such as IRD and IRD Tax Refund NZ’’ and urge you to ‘‘join thousands of satisfied visitors who discovered Online
Tax Return NZ and Tax Return NZ’’. (They will admit that there are the usual troublemakers but then point to a survey which shows that ‘‘109.6% of visitors are deliriously happy with myIR and 63% agree it was the most fun thing you can do without actually taking your clothes off ’’.)
Now, don't be fooled by that word ‘‘visitors’’. It is a weasel word for ‘‘customers’’ or ‘‘taxpayers’’. The use of ‘‘my’’ is, of course, just another example of a marketing ploy which aims to give you a sense of ownership of whatever service is being offered.
‘‘MyLotto’’ is a good example of such linguistic abuse. After buying a ticket each week for 20 years, do you feel that you actually ‘‘own’’ Lotto? Of course not. But they are all at it. There's My Sky and the pensions people will bamboozle you with mymsd. Happily, I had no contact with any of these ‘‘my’’ poseurs until myIR invaded my world last week.
Although my working life had involved talking on the wireless, my moonlighting as a ‘‘writer’’ forced me to take on an accountant to deal with tax matters relating to the modest extra income. So, for the last 50 years an accountant has had my taxation matters entirely in his capable hands (one of them was an Otago fullback). Once a year I would drop off a shoe box of pay slips, receipts and cheque butts and back would come an empty shoe box, a small refund or a hefty demand and a bill for services which was large enough to explain why accountants have Champagne for breakfast and wear sparkly cufflinks.
But when I became a pensioner, having an accountant seemed rather pretentious as the bill for preparing the return was always substantially higher that any refund. I was told to tap in to myIR and try the ‘‘Online Tax Return NZ’’ service.
‘‘No phone calls needed’’ trumpeted the blurb which was reassuring as my hearing is ropey. But 20 minutes into the formfilling came an instruction to ring up to get some sort of password or ID or blood group details. (My recollections are hazy as the whole experience shattered me).
My wife volunteered to make the call as she has perfect ears (although she has mentioned perhaps some minor work on the left lobe which droops just a little). The call centre in Auckland is staffed by speciallyrecruited, vocallychallenged mumblers, for whom English is a third language.
‘‘We are a multicultural society,’’ the IRD will boast, but that's no help to ‘‘visitors’’.
My wife explained to the young woman that she was calling about her husband's tax matters. At once, a carefullyrehearsed note of caring and concern. ‘‘Oh dear, I am sorry. Is he no more?’’ My wife looked across for a moment to check and replied, ‘‘Actually, he's sitting beside me, I'm afraid, but his hearing is not good so I'm calling on his behalf. Can you handle that, please?’’
‘‘I will have to speak to my supervisor.’’ A quarter of an hour filled with reggae music passed unpleasantly until she returned to announce that such a procedure was impossible. We would have to write to some outfit in Lower Hutt which deals with the vexed complications of ‘‘acting on behalf of the hearing impaired’’.
My wife, known for her grit, tolerance, and good humour, could take no more. The ‘‘unneeded’’ phone call had now lasted 40 minutes. Any attempt at complaint or repartee was just beaten out of her. Her cool ‘‘goodbye’’ elicited what was probably a scripted response with just a touch of selfdefence, ‘‘We are here to help you in the right way.’’
Luckily, an opened bottle of pinot noir was handy and we both sat for some moments pondering myIR.
An executive decision was taken and off went an email to my exaccountant humbly requesting that I be put back on his books and promising to have the shoebox couriered at once.
My amateur figuring had already indicated that I'm getting a tax refund, or maybe a tax bill, for $46.34. Not much in it either way. The accountant's bill will be 10 times that amount but will be welcome, as long as it keeps me out of the clutches of myIR ‘‘helping me in the right way.’’