Stop the presses
I've been getting that slippery sliding feeling of impending darkness and Cruella DeVille squashing my Mary Poppins between two fingers. A begrudging sense that my mat leave isn't all about gooing and gaaing over the sprogget, but just the domestic oblivion of cleaning, washing, bills, no money that sent me to hell two times over. Then I got a returned call from the tax office. My tax debt, that has been hanging over my head for the last four years, and that made the last financial year really really ugly as I struggled to pay it off, is p.a.i.d. o.f.f. Not only that, my account is in credit and they're going to pay it back to me before Christmas. Suddenly I don't care how many l0ads of washing I have to do - all is much much better with the world.