Julie Hamill’s London: Abuses of power

In all the years they’ve been doing my tax return, I’ve never visited my accountant’s offices in central London. Typically, I send everything digitally. However, this year I’ve found myself with a bigger pile of paper than usual. Rather than photograph each one, I decide to pop down to their offices and hand them in for scanning. That way, I can team it with a bit of Christmas shopping in the West End.

There’s a mindfulness to handling Ye Olde Receipts, and I welcome this aspect of Boomerdom.

1. Flatten the crinkly strips and arrange them in chronological order.

2. Highlight the date and amount in pink, yellow or green. I believe it’s jazzier on the eye for the accountant to see the numbers in colour, plus it gives them a break from the black and white matrix of “dreadsheets”. I convince myself I’m helping.

And so, with my receipt-rainbow-of-hell tucked into a classic manilla folder in my tote bag, I take the Jubilee line to Bond Street. The two women opposite me are talking about Gregg Wallace.

“He’s had it coming a long time.”

“Yeah, but why didn’t the victims speak up sooner?’

‘They probably did, see. It’s the BBC. Remember, they protected Savile for years.”

“Hmm. True, yeah, suppose.”

The elbow of the man beside me, who’s much taller and broader than I am – I’m five feet two-and-a-half – has encroached over my seat. Rather than ask him to move it, I shift myself so I’m right up against the glass at the end. It’s what I’m used to doing, and I’m not sure he’s aware of his intrusion. He looks very relaxed with his legs all spread out and his headphones on, so I don’t bother him.

I get onto the escalator and think about the shopping. I might nip into HMV and get a few music biographies as gifts. I recall a London radio station broadcast from the day before: the male presenter was asking his male guest for his top five music books of the year. The guest counted down out his choices, all written by men, about men. I guess those books are the best reads then?  They’ll probably be front of store.

I beep through the tube exit and out onto Davies Street with a quick turn to look up to see the Oxford Street lights – quite nice, better in the dark. I go to take a pic but decide to keep my phone in my pocket. I read somewhere that 52,000 phones were stolen in London last year, by gangs on electric scooters and e-bikes disappearing fast into the night. There’s not much the Met can do. Victims track the phone the next day to find it’s boarded a flight to a far off land.

A phone is stolen every six minutes – a thousand a week. London is now the phone theft capital of Europe, a stat to supersedes – or, in different sense, prove – the one about how near Londoners are to a rat. A good friend of mine was a victim of a snatch a few months back. She was standing on Oxford Street outside the branch of Boots opposite St Christopher’s Place, sending a text. Suddenly, her phone was ripped from her hands by a guy wearing a face covering. He sped off on a scooter and she was so shaken she couldn’t even shout after him. A male acquaintance later advised her that she shouldn’t have had her phone out in Oxford Street and went on to ask her if she had been drinking when it happened.

I arrive safely at tax tower HQ and they greet me warmly and take my file. The receptionist offers me a coffee and brings it in a fancy glass. “It might be a bit strong!” he says. I almost say “Ha! That’s how I like it, strong like my…” Uh, no, halt. That’s wrong, it’s not appropriate, and could be found offensive, even at the most self-referencing micro level.

Not only is it dated, it’s over-familiar. I recognise that it’s ingrained in my generation, this terrible patter; as a cultural small talk habit. One has to grab it before it leaves the mouth, followed by a private cringe, a ‘Thank god I didn’t say that” and a thorough self-cancellation later.

Mouth comfortably shut, I sit back on the plush couch and look around the office whilst somebody pretends it’s no problem to scan my scraps. The interior is mostly creams and greys and there’s a tastefully decorated Christmas tree twinkling under the type of ceiling tiles Bruce Willis might dislodge and crawl through. On the coffee table there’s a lego Tower Bridge that doesn’t get played with, a candle that never gets lit and some books that never get read.

I notice the iconic John Pasche Rolling Stones logo, quite large, just out of sight on a wood panelled wall. “We’re not what you thought we were, are we?” it suggests, being all accountancy rock ‘n’ roll, sticking its tongue out. I look back to the coffee table and see a well known politician’s face on top of the pile of books. For a minute, I enjoy the mental image of me setting fire to the book in an office metal waste bin, then dancing round playing Paint it Black at full volume on my unstolen phone.

But of course I don’t do that. I’m just waiting here for my receipts. Instead, I decide to move the book to see what else is underneath. As I reach I notice its title – The Abuse Of Power.

One of the accountants comes back with my receipts in a folder.

“Thanks Julie,” she says. “It was nice to get a break away from my desk and the screen.” I smile and stand up to leave. I did help.

“I like your glasses!” she adds. “Thanks!” I reply, genuinely thrilled. I hold off from asking if she liked my colouring-in. That would be going too far.

I pick up a few Christmassy bits on Regent Street and stand inside the door of Hollister to photograph the angelic lights from a safe position.

It’s only 5.30pm, but dark when I come out at the tube near home. I walk down the street and hear noises in the wind making me feel paranoid that there’s somebody close behind me. As usual, I look to check. Thankfully, there’s nobody there.

Julie Hamill writes novels, appears on Times Radio and does lots, lots more. Follow her on Bluesky. Support OnLondon.co.uk and its writers for just £5 a month or £50 a year and get things for your money too. Details HERE.