My tax dollars at work
I made the mistake of trying to contact the IRD today. Because I was attempting to find out if a thing I thought I owed them money for was, indeed, a thing I owed them money for, or if I was actually allowed to keep the money. The IRD website didn't reveal what I wanted to know. Primarily due to me not knowing what to look for. So, I figured, hey! I'll telephone them!
I dialled the 0800 number on my lunch break. A helpful male voice replies, and tells me that it's terribly sorry but it does not accept 0800 calls from mobile telephones - if I want, I can dial a number that will cost me monies, or perhaps I could visit the website instead! Goodbye. *click*
I dial the number. A helpful male voice replies, and tells me that it's terribly sorry but the lines are overloaded; perhaps I could visit the website instead! Goodbye. *click*
I dial the number. A helpful male voice replies, and tells me that it's terribly sorry but the lines are overloaded; perhaps I could visit the website instead! Goodbye. *click*
I dial the number. A helpful male voice replies, and tells me that it's terribly sorry but the lines are overloaded; perhaps I could visit the website instead! Goodbye. *click*
I dial the number. A helpful male voice replies, and tells me that it's terribly sorry but the lines are overloaded; perhaps I could visit the website instead! Goodbye. *click*
I redial the number a total of NINETEEN TIMES. Eventually the phone is picked up (by the same automagic male voice) and I am walked through one of those godawful phone trees where you have to use voice-response for everything.
I apparently mis-navigate the system, because the helpful male voice replies, and tells me that that information is available on the website! Goodbye. *click*
I swear. Quite a lot.
I dial the number. A helpful male voice replies, and tells me that it's terribly sorry but the lines are overloaded; perhaps I could visit the website instead! Goodbye. *click*
I bang my head on the desk.
I dial the number. A helpful male voice replies, and tells me that it's terribly sorry but the lines are overloaded; perhaps I could visit the website instead! Goodbye. *click*
I do this a total of four times, before eventually getting through to the damnblasted voice activated phone tree.
It turns out it is much easier to navigate phone trees when you are so angry that you are snarling at the telephone.
After a number of grumpily snapped responses, I finally got the phone tree to agree to forward me to a human being. At which I discover that I am in a 45-minute queue. If I want, I can hold, which I am sure my phone bill would appreciate - or the IRD will call me back! But only on a land-line number, not on my cellphone; perhaps I could visit the website instead!
I swear vitriolically at the system and hang up the phone. Then I bang my head on the desk.
It only took twenty four phone calls, all of which I had to pay for, and a significant chunk of my sanity.
I returned to the website, gave up; searched the wilds of the general internet until I found a forum that answered my question, and armed with the correct tax terms, returned into the wilds of the website to extract my answer.
After all that, I don't owe the bloody tax department money.
An unexpected problem of car ownership
My usual visit to the post office box yesterday turned into an adventure. I had a letter from Land Transport NZ telling me that I was no longer the owner of my car.
So, I promptly re-registered myself as the owner, then went home to try and unravel the situation.
There's a handy thing you can grab, called the Vehicle Information Report. Amongst other things, it shows you the names of previous / current owners of any vehicle. Other than my registration, all of an hour old, it showed that NZ's biggest insurance company (well, the umbrella company who own a bunch of others - including the company I'm insured with) had acquired the ownership of my car.
Two days after I bought it.
What the fuck.
I called the police, to doublecheck there weren't any reports of theft against my car. There weren't - but there was a record of it having been nicked in June (with the previous owners) and then recovered two weeks later.
So, either someone Really Fucked Up at the insurance company, or someone's trying to fiddle their insurance company.
Of course, this was after business hours, so all I got was a polite brushoff from a sweet young claims assistant, who explained it was probably a typo and not to worry. It was frankly not worth bitching about at that point, so I gave up for the night.
See, the typo theory just does not wash with me. That implies that it's OK for insurance clerks to a) waste $10 of their employers money (an ownership transfer costs $10) and b) sort of steal someone else's car.
The catchphrase for said insurance company is "Help just happens". I really don't think they'd prefer "We accidentally steal cars!" instead.
This morning, I have managed to get a different team on the phone. They have punted me up the chain to yet another team, who have Lots of System Access. They promised to call me back after investigating.
I don't know if it helped or hindered that I have my own insurance with said company. I suppose it adds an element of "Let's not piss off the person who pays the bills."
Eventually, I received a telephone call to explain. The folks who owned it when it was stolen had it deregistered, and claimed it on the insurance. I can only imagine that when it was found, they didn't get it back? I don't know, that particular bit of the story (due to privacy laws) wasn't shared with me.
Either way, the insurance company, working with the promptness one expects (ie, it took a month) transferred the ownership of the car to themselves using the engine's chassis number. Which is a perfectly sensible thing to do, with a stolen car that may or may not have the same plates.
The situation is resolved, the car is legally allowed to be mine, and I am much relieved.
Arrogant asshole drivers.
Driving along today, a car two-cars-ahead of me decided it wanted to turn across quite a lot of oncoming traffic. This is fine.
The lane beside me was clear, so I checked, indicated, checked again, and moved to pull out around the stopped cars.
At this point, a blue BMW from some cars behind me had obviously had the same idea. Except he'd pulled out without indicating, shoved his foot down HARD, and by now had his bonnet at my rear left wheel.
The car in front of me was an SUV. Big solid bastard of a thing, not a poncy Remuera tractor.
The BMW was also a fairly large vehicle.
I drive a tiny little Mazda Familia Neo.
Given the option of being the meat in a BMW-SUV sandwich, or rear-ending the SUV, I chose to rear-end the SUV. The BMW just blew past, still accelerating, and took off.
We pulled over to investigate the damage. The driver of the SUV had seen the Beamer blow past, and believed me that I'd checked things properly. Anyway, he's undamaged, save for having a wee bit of Buzby's paint on his muffler and bumper. He wasn't worried about insurance, voluntarily declined to get our details. And through the haze of ohmygodIcausedanaccident I didn't think to get his plates. Nice guy. Just taking his kid to play sport.
Buzby will need panelbeating on her bonnet, driver's front panel, bumper, and a replacement front right light and fitting.
For all I know, she'll have some engine damage too. We couldn't open the bonnet to find out.
I am ... upset. I am not a stupid driver. I was maneuvering carefully, dammit! I checked the road more than once, and as I pulled out it was CLEAR! You could argue that I shouldn't have been impatient, but I could see the oncoming traffic would be there for miles. We had places to be, so I took an educated risk and moved out. Into a road that would have been clear, were it not for some dickwad in a beamer.
Hell, if he'd been moving slowly it would have been fine. But no, heaven forbid you think about what cars up ahead of you with their LIGHTS and INDICATORS ON might be doing.
I'm angry, because legally a rear-ending is counted as my fault. Even though it was the safer move, as I didn't want bodily harm to occur to Tobermory or myself. Even though this wouldn't have happened, were it not for the arrogant asshole in the BMW.
Tobermory and I are OK, which is the important bit. The repairs will probably cost less than my insurance deductible. And I'll just have to catch the bus to work.
Sigh.
make it stop pretty please?
The cat has discovered that Under the Blankets is Warm. I discovered that the cat had discovered this mid-roll-over the other night, when my foot encountered fur instead of the expected weight at some point of the duvet. The fur then extruded claws, began licking my big toe, and purred. It was highly disconcerting. She'd snuck under the duvet from the foot end, and, judging from the subsequent nights, thinks this is the Best Thing Ever.
Apparently she didn't exit the bed today until about noon. Lazy little bugger.
In other news, Murphy either wants to make Tobermory and I are REALLY REALLY SURE about this relationship, NO REALLY ARE YOU SURE YOU'RE SURE, or he hates us. Either way, Tobermory just got made redundant, along with about 1/4 of the IT department at his workplace.
Hooray, right?
His payout is enough to pay an immigration lawyer to shout at immigration for us and change the application type to "Partnership". Which is handy, seeing as without a job, he can't really apply on the basis of "Hey, I'm paying tax, now let me immigrate please".
In other news, my job is hiring. I find this amusing. No, Tobermory will NOT be applying - for one, he's waaay past working service desk, career wise (unless it's that or starve) and two, I do not think he and I should share a workplace. Especially not one in which I'm his trainer.
We're on top of it, pretty much, but sheesh. LIFE IS BEING A BITCH AND I WOULD LIKE HER TO STOP DOING SO THANK YOU.
Chin up, lads.
I am currently in an incredibly shitty mood with immigration. It is looking increasingly like Tobermory is going to have to apply for residency based on our relationship, rather than his own merits. I really cannot put into words how much this annoys me. Not because I object to proving our relationship is real - it is real, and I am ... happy. This is my life, and I love him and love it.
It bugs me that ... well... "Oh, so you're coming over here to take our jobs, eh? Right, prove that you shouldn't be tossed out on your arse." Versus "You're coming over here to help increase our population? Just prove that you're getting your dick moist regularly plz." Assholes. I have no polite explanations, so I am getting tiddly and just not talking about it any more. Sick and tired of the whole bullshit.
However, I got shiny in the mail today. I love Ursula Vernon's work, and have demanded that Tobermory allow me to buy a Holstein Iris print, when we have an actual kitchen to put it in. For now, however, there is tea. And a calendar. They are shiny and wonderful. Yay, etc.
There is also a very small box, with a cat stuffed therein. She is a pretty, and she keeps wandering over and purring at me, then re-wedging her large self in the little box, to general amusement. Silly baggage. Either she's checking I'm OK, or is dropping hints about the state of her meatplate (empty, she's scoffed it all).
