Jams and Soups

Like banks, accountants are difficult to change.

I've been with my bank now nearly 20 years. First Direct. The appeal when I first went to it was of course that it's a faceless bank. All business is conducted over the telephone or now on the Internet. Which is great in that you don't have to deal with people when you don't feel like it. Of course the downside is that when you'd like to actually talk to somebody with whom you have a relationship, it's potluck on who answers the phone. Whenever I've found them obstructive in any way I have thought about changing, and then 10 seconds later when I think of all the hassle of changing direct debits, bank details on invoices, and thinking of all the various things that could go wrong, I take a deep breath and carry on with them. I suppose it's what banks rely on. We all stay where we are because it's too much hassle to change.

It's the same with my accountant. I'm sure he's not the cheapest, and each year at this time as I submit my tax papers to him to prepare my tax return we enter into a wary round of negotiations as to what I'll do in order to make sure the cost is lower. I've seen loads of adverts on the Internet and in the Equity Journal for accountancy services for actors, with online software and and other such enticements that are about a third of the cost of what I pay my accountant. Then I think of the fact that he's been handling my tax affairs for years, and the fact that a change of accountant may provoke the taxman into looking into my affairs–not that they'd find anything untoward–and I stay where I am.

My accountant obviously isn't doing too badly. These days he doesn't have an office but works from home. Home is an apartment in Chelsea Harbour. Obviously lots of other people like me paying the same sorts of fees have put him there. This now means that rather than just popping in to town and dropping off my tax file for each year at his office, I have to go to Chelsea Harbour, which isn't the most accessible place by public transport. Accordingly this Wednesday I set off to drive over to Chelsea to drop off my papers and head back to Dulwich to have an afternoon tea with my lovely friend Daisy Douglas.

It took about 25 min to get to Chelsea Harbour, park the car, drop the papers off and then get back in the car. I set off again driving along the embankment to avoid the congestion charge, and hoping to turn right over Vauxhall Bridge. This is where my afternoon went tragically wrong. I chosen the same afternoon to deliver my tax papers as the more militant front of the National union of students had chosen to attack the Conservative national offices on Millbank.

About 10 min after leaving my accountant I was caught in a huge traffic jam. Both sides of the embankment were chock-a-block with cars. No room to turn round and head in the opposite direction and moving at a snail's pace. It took me an hour to get from Chelsea Bridge to just outside Dolphin Square where I used to live, a distance I used to be able to walk in just under 10 min. The sight of a few desultory middle-class people walking back in the opposite direction carrying pink placards demanding “stop the education cuts now" soon made me realise what was happening. I remember sitting in the car thinking “I do hope this isn't because a lot of people are standing around waving placards" and I have to say that when I saw the news on television later that day I thought “well at least it was worth sitting in the traffic jam for" I can't say that I condone violent protests, but history tends to show us that very few peaceful protests have really made any difference.. I remember driving back into London one Saturday afternoon in spring 1990 to find myself diverted around various areas of London that I'd rather not visit in order to avoid the poll tax riots. And of course later the poll tax disappeared. I wonder if all the anti-Iraqi demonstrators on that Saturday afternoon in February 2003 had smashed a few windows, Tony Blair might have sat up and listened a little more. Possibly not. After all Blair knew he was right as he told us in his autobiography, a book I still can't helping moving to the crime section every time I'm in a branch of Waterstone's.

Perhaps the protests might make the government think a little. Perhaps it might scorch the consciences of Clegg and his compatriots who have totally betrayed their electoral promises in order to taste power. Perhaps it might do nothing at all, and the rising tuition fees will make people think about whether they really need a degree in order to get the job that they want to do–that is of course if there are any jobs left by then.

So that's the jam. Now for the soup. We don't have a dining table. We have a gorgeous flat which we love, but no room for a real dining table. Not a problem on a day-to-day basis in a world where TV suppers are the in thing, but it does pose a problem when one is entertaining. A problem to be solved with inventiveness. A couple years ago Rich and I spent a rather wonderful weekend in Lisbon where we ate one of the most fabulous dinners we've ever had. One thing that particularly caught my eye was the fact that the soup course was served in martini glasses to be sipped gently. A beautiful idea turning a simple dish into something rather special.

So with the help of a pack of martini glasses from IKEA (almost disposable at £8 per six), a great pea and ham recipe from Jamie Oliver, and the company of four of Richard's friends from work, we spent a delightful Saturday evening. A riot in fact!