June 30th is approaching fast. This is the time of year that Badger and I hibernate until my staff have completed their tax returns. It can get very unpleasant; their language - never angelic at the best of times becomes positively demonic and at any moment I expect their heads to spin around and their mouths to spew pea soup all over the living room floor. They range through the house like a pair of wild eyed velociraptors searching for prey. From room to room they hunt missing receipts, snarling and hissing at each other and roundly cursing the Australian Tax Office for having the temerity to want to know how much they've earned. Although the word "earned" in my male staff's case is stretching the meaning of the word somewhat. Personally I wouldn't call loafing around the house, drinking coffee, helping me to write this stuff and sending people to Africa "earning", would you? At least my female staff spends her working day in the health field, doing whatever people do in a field - picking daisies, having picnics, avoiding charging bulls etc. I suppose.
As small, fat, hairy beings with long whiskers and four digits on each paw Badger and I are exempt from tax in Australia, except for the state of Tasmania where we might well be mistaken for locals. Nevertheless we earn our keep by being cute and conning my staff into believing that we are fond of them by snuggling into their laps whenever we're wrenched from our cages and often our beauty sleep. What is remarkable is the number of complaints concerning tax that I read in the 'Letters to the Editor" page of the local rag that lines the bottom of my cage. I can thoroughly recommend the Sunshine Coast Daily for it's absorbency by the way. At this time of year it's quite remarkable how many humans whinge about the amount of tax they have to pay, and yet you can bet your life that these people are the same ones who whine about police services being cut, the lack of hospital beds and the state of the roads. The trouble is that these plonkers are being encouraged by certain politicians who, in a mad rush to win the contest for being the most popular politician, promise huge tax cuts without bothering to say where the money is coming from. Hells bells! Even a guinea pig knows that you can't have low taxes and decent services. You choose humans. One or the other.
Meanwhile, my female staff is in deep mourning. Daniel Craig has married Rachel Wiesz. The love of her life (Daniel that is, not Rachel.) is now unobtainable, and she's moping about the house in a sort of daze, dabbing her eyes from time to time with a black lace handkerchief and sighing a lot. My male staff has been doing his best to console her, saying things like "He may be ruggedly handsome, fit as a butcher's dog, incredible in bed, and rich and talented, but can he make good scrambled eggs? Does he ever do the washing up? Does he make the bed? Does he like guinea pigs?" My female staff just stares at him, sniffs and says "Who gives a shit?"