Donegan's Diary: One of the perils of being a self-employed freelance writer is that you occasionally have to talk to an accountant. Not quite as dangerous as talking to a crocodile with an in-grown toenail, but close.

One of the perils of being a self-employed freelance writer is that you occasionally have to talk to an accountant. This is not quite as dangerous as talking to a crocodile with an in-grown toenail but it's close.

Don't get me wrong. I have a lot of time for accountants as people, especially my own accountant, who is sweet, kind and stoically patient the way he waits for his cheque (don't worry, it's in the post). But the problem is accountants have too many bright ideas. Stick a man in a dark suit and sprinkle a little dandruff around his shoulders, and the next thing you know you are sitting across the desk from Leonardo Da Vinci.

If he's not telling you how to design helicopters and paint Florentine masterpieces, he's telling how to offset your married person's allowance against your over-40s low-income tax credit.

I have made an extensive study of the conversations I have had with my accountant over the years and worked out I have understood approximately 3.7% of what he has said to me. But being a well brought-up young man with an over-developed terror of people who wear suits, I have never worked up the courage to say: "Excuse me, but I've been staring out of the window for the past five minutes and I swear I've just seen Cameron Diaz trying on a selection of blouses in that shop across the street. Now what was that you were saying?"

I think this is exactly what happened when my accountant told me I should form my own company. "It will be more tax efficient,'' he said.

To be fair, he then explained in great detail, in words that a chipmunk could comprehend, exactly why this would be tax efficient, but the problem was Cameron Diaz then started trying on a pair of hot pants.

Not to worry, he would take care of everything. All I would have to do would be to deal with a tiny bit of paperwork every once in a while.

I've been self-employed now for 10 years and during that time I have developed a special system for dealing with important paperwork as it arrives in the post. This involves opening the envelope, emptying the contents on my desk and then throwing them in the bucket three months later as I frantically search for my lost wallet.

As with all office-management systems, this one has pluses and minuses. On the positive side, you don't have to polish your desk if it is covered in a three-inch layer of unread letters. However, one slight drawback is government officials get a little tetchy if they think you are ignoring their mail.

Take the folks at Companies House, who are apparently in charge of everything to do with companies registered in this country. I say apparently, because I hadn't heard of Companies House until the other day when they sent me a letter threatening to report me to the procurator-fiscal, have me convicted, fined up to £5000 per offence and then, as an extra bonus, have me expelled from being a company director for eternity or until Stirling Albion win the Champions League, whichever comes first.

My first thoughts were that this wasn't a very friendly letter from someone I've never even met. My second thought was that I must be guilty of mass murder to deserve all of the above, although for the life of me I couldn't remember when I had committed the crime. That's when I decided to call the helpline at the bottom of the letter.

Let the record show that Companies House is a lot more polite and professional than British Gas. For one thing, it actually puts your address on the threatening letter, unlike British Gas, which if our recent experience is anything to go by, prefers the method of "postcode only and let's hope the postman is an intuitive genius".

I spoke to a very nice person and she explained the problem was that I hadn't filled in and returned Form 363. I explained that not only had I never heard of Form 363 I wouldn't be able to pick it out of a police line-up if it was wearing a stripy jumper and a Batman mask.

Then she said it had been sent to my home address and, surely, it must be in my files somewhere. And that was when I called my accountant and started crying.

He told me not to worry and that I wasn't going to jail, although I might if I didn't pay my accountant's bill within the next seven days. When I mentioned the missing Form 363 he suggested its disappearance might have something to do with my patented office management system and said I might want to try a new approach, such as actually reading the stuff that arrives in the post.

Him and his bright ideas.

And he wonders why my cheque is still in the post.