there is no doubt that I carry a slightly sanctimonious halo around with me since I became legally blonde in France.
My cheques may still come with the wording "non-resident Euro" but that's because I can't be bothered to fill in the numerous forms and then post them out to get it changed.
Plus, I know anyway - puffs out chest - I am no longer a non-resident, so such words are mere detail.
Indeed, I've been eagerly awaiting the census-takers for once, ready to answer all questions in a clear, I-am-hiding-nothing manner.
Hell, I'll even sing all verses of La Marseillaise if asked: proudly, as a French resident, though not a citizen.
(Their last visit had me reverting to pretend pidgin French as I ducked and dived specifics in the belief that should the merde ever hit the fan I could plead incomprehension. Linguistically or mentally. Possibly both.)
So, a year since I stopped paying tax to the UK Government, I take great delight in frightening expats with horror stories of the awesome powers of the French state.
The vast bulk of the retired simply use a family address in the UK as their main domicile and continue to pay tax there in the belief that as they don't work they'll be fine.
Basically, despite having only one residence - in France - and living here year-round, they believe as long as they're paying "back home" all will be well.
What bit of "fiscally domiciled" do they not understand?
Admittedly it is harder to duck under the tax web if you're still working but, technically, if I'd been bright enough to use my son's address and presumably pay council tax, I could have done it. As they seem to do. Even if illegal.
With my luck? No chance.
So for a year I have been paying almost 24% social charges on my meagre turnover, not profit, with no permitted expenses.
I pay those every three months and now I am about to submit my annual tax return and add those on to it.
Well, I'm not, as I still add up on my fingers and go into the Zen zone of thumb-sucking and body-rocking when faced with figures.
No, I now have a French accountant who costs me just about as much as my annual profit. Actually, come to think of it, more.
Yesterday he sent me a simplified form to fill in. It was very simple but still far beyond my comprehension and I always wonder why I have to fill in things when I'm paying someone to do so.
He doesn't really answer my questions. He's French. Why would he? He'll give me an amount along with his fee and that will be that.
Reading stuff on the web I thought I could get a tax credit for my gardener and got the answer: yes. Praise be, Socialist France.
Ah, no, not quite. I would need to set up a separate account between us, ie the gardener, moi and the social security department, so that they could take his charges out from my payment.
Are you following this? In other words, his invoice, his registration is meaningless unless another chunk of paper and contract exists.
No chance either with the cleaner who can't clean. I pay her cash; she's on the black, under the radar.
Should a hit squad from the tax authorities turn up here as she flits around with her useless feather duster, we'd both be fined.
Me more than her, for employing her without paying her enough for her to pay all the charges and knowing I was doing what I was doing. Deep breath. Got it now?
I pay her a very decent amount but if she had to pay her charges off that, it would practically half.
So, she has certain clients on the black and others not. That means she can also claim many benefits because of her earnings, and actually not pay tax.
More than 50% of the French population pays no tax at all. Credits against tax accrue by virtue of children, age, domestic employees, childcare, elderly care and a hundred other little tricks.
I don't know the tricks. I never have in either country and have always paid full whack.
Anyway, with each question from the French accountant and each query from me unanswered, I feel my halo slipping.
I feel it slipping around my throat and strangling me in my righteousness.
Yes, I feel better knowing that if a knock came to my door I can say I am within the system … the French system, and point them to my accounts.
But then I look at how much I must pay to be here. Much, much more than in the UK, it seems.
And I look at the smug Brits around me who pay eff all and never seem to be caught between two tax worlds and never worry about it either.
And I wonder if I should have remained illegally blonde?
Or even a non-resident Euro.
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