Post 412: The Big Cumbrian Surprise
We stopped at that farm shop services 15 miles south of Carlisle, and I was on the phone again. For the fourth time this week.
I should have been getting ready to surprise my boy, but no, I was in tears again, this time in front of my friends in the car.
I was calling that insurance company that has lots of yellow in its logo (it used to be Norwich Union, but no more clues).
The call was already 35 minutes long, and there seemed to be no end to it.
The problem this time was that the money had been paid into my account… but only the amount after all the tax had been taken off.
A few weeks ago I had been told that my withdrawal could avoid the tax if I completed a form they emailed to me. It was the one that had to be signed by my doctor before I signed it myself and sent it back.
And that’s exactly what I did.
If you remember, I kept ringing the reception ladies to ask about it and when it would be signed. I kept getting fobbed off and eventually they said it had been lost and that they would need another copy bringing in during an appointment with the doctor.
Which I did.
So when I asked today, while sitting in a wet car park on the verge of our destination, why the form I’d been told would avoid the tax hadn’t avoided the tax, I was told several times that she didn’t know anything about the form and that I’d have to take it up with the tax office.
I let her have it with both eyes, nose, and another five minutes of mopping up my own tears.
She repeated what the lady earlier in the week had said:
“I’ve opened a complaint and there will be a full review of the audio recordings.”
“We will learn from this,” she finished.
It looks like the tax has to be paid, but I told her, as I regained my composure, that there had been a delivery yesterday which went some way towards addressing the earlier complaint.
“A very nice box of chocolates.”
But who knows what tomorrow brings?
The trip up to the farm shop ended with another 38 minutes of my life gone and another complaint they have effectively created themselves.
I don’t hold out much hope that a complaint will reverse this tax burden from my drawdown, but perhaps I’ll at least learn what that form was all about.
Who knows?
I might get another box of chocolates.
My poor teeth. Ha ha.
But we got to our destination a few miles further along the road and shared some big hugs with our lovely hosts for the next few days.
After the kettle had started the tea round for me and the girls, and the two “lads” had strayed towards the beer fridge, we all enjoyed a quick catch-up.
Then my host and I headed into town so we could pay a surprise visit to my son, all arranged by my daughter-in-law.
And what a surprise it was.
The door opened.
His face turned towards me.
With my glasses off, my hoodie up, and the drawstring pulled tight and tied in a bow, even he couldn’t believe his eyes.
I stepped into the house and grabbed hold of the statue that was my son, standing completely still and unbelieving.
Wow.
What a surprise.
I was in bits, slobbering and crying onto his shoulder until I let him go, only to grab him again and start crying onto his shoulder once more.
My word, what a plan.
What a great plan.
It worked to perfection, and this trip north was already becoming memorable for all the right reasons.
Eventually I settled, my eldest settled, and the house stopped shaking with shock and happiness.
The trip up, though long and rough with the weather against us, was a complete success.
All seven of us resumed chatting over a wonderfully varied raclette meal, with meats, fish and vegetables filling our bellies while stories filled the evening.
Eventually I faded and headed off to bed.
Tomorrow and the rest of the weekend are largely unplanned, apart from the drive home on Sunday, and there was a lovely calmness among the guests around the table. Everyone had their own vision of what might fill the next couple of days.
This weekend of walking, beer, friendship and family will be remembered long into the next decade or two.
Especially because of our eldest and his resourceful wife, who helped stage this wonderful little story of love and friendship.
Good night.
I’m bushed.
Take care.
