Lucy Blake's Weblog

The Sex Worker and the Tax Man

Soooo today it was off to the accountant to pay my pimp … THE TAX MAN (we know it’s a man because only a man can screw you the way tax does_

For the 3 hours before I was shaking. All nervous. PANIC ATTACK to the supreme!! I have no idea why visiting my accountant is such a terrifying experience.


I mean in reality it’s all good. I go, I give him a plastic box with every piece of paper or receipt I have received over the past year, with a print out of my spreadhsheet with all the money I have earnt thrown in on top. He looks at it, shakes his head and asks me if I would like to spend a few hours with it (he sounds like a mortician asking if I want to spend a few hours with the dead carcass that is my financial life) to put it in order. I say no that’s what I pay him for and tax men is where hookers learnt the principal of charging extras from and tell him to charge me for putting it altogether. Easy peasy!

So you sit in the office waiting for Mr Tax having just gotten out of the lift which happens to be one of those unfortunate lifts that makes your feet land in your stomach and your stomach rush to your brain. So you get out of the lift already feeling sick. Then it’s one of those offices that is SILENT! I don’t do silent, it completely freaks me right out. So I start singing the noise song which happens to be Old McDOnald. After a few rounds with me snorting like a pig, moooooing like a cow and barking mad like a dog he comes out and looks at me all strange. I think he is one of those creatures who never see’s hookers cause he thinks we’re all to insane to sit in the same room alone with – he always starts with the office door shut when I arrive and then suddenly gets up and opens it after a few minutes.

We have the dead carcass conversation, how woman not of the sex industry are looking trashier these days in bar, we debate over if the hetero man to woman ratio in Sydney is actually 4:1 or 5:1 (he reckons he read 4:1) and how this relates to the decline of the sex industry, discuss how many speed humps I will be able to buy with the tax money I will be paying (he reckons 5 or 6) and whether the amount of speed humps you buy directly correlates to how many warm and fuzzy feelings you get for knowing you did your bit to force more speed humps on your local community. We discuss whether or not I could petition the Big Brother Tax man to put a plaque on my speed humps with my name on it or whether I could ask him to put one of those cool round abouts in like there are in Summer Hill with the mosaic tile art on top. He said he would Google for me and see if he could find out.

The highlight of the meeting has to be when you discuss the ethics of Big Brother Tax Man actually being a pimp. Sex Work in NSW is of course legal but pimping or living off the earnings of a prostitute is illegal. SO technicaly speaking isn’t the Big Brother Tax Man not only breaking the law but doing something that the vast majority of Australians would frown upon? I suppose people’s values about feeling personaly affronted and ripped off by sex workers not paying tax far outweighs their sense of injustice of an ethical law being broken.

So why the panic?? I simply cannot put my finger on it! All I know is visiting my accountant scares the shite out of me. No-one wears bad shoes in his office, his receptionist colour coordinates her clothes with the feature wall and furniture in the office, it’s all pretty non offensive really. I told him he freaks me out so he is considering elevator music and a fish tank. Fish tanks alway work in dentists so we are leaning towards the fish tank.

Anyhoooo is anyone else terrified when they visit their accountant?



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