Accountants & Their Unsmiling Staff

We have an accountant, the husband and I, who works in the central suburb by the sea where we were once residents before that momentous move three years ago. In fact I found that particular accountant alone and unaided, though it wasn’t difficult because he had a rather large sign or two advertising his services. I was anxious to rid myself of the considerably more expensive accountant with the smart office and several smiling receptionists on the other side of the city who urged me in genial unison to have a really lovely day each time I visited. The newly acquired seaside accountant assured me his bills would be a diminutive version of his predecessor and he was very charming. Of course after the first year or two he stopped being quite so charming, his bills began to grow and anyhow we rarely saw him because he re-assigned `our books’ to an underling called Marcos. I’m not really complaining too much about Marcos or his employer though it does take courage to pass by the tall Nikau palms, battle for a parking place and finally enter the premises by the sea because these accountancy experts seem to have hired the most ill-disposed and surly staff available in the Auckland labour market. Yesterday their senior receptionist, a large and formidable female safely ensconced behind and shielded by her imposing desk, glared towards us and demanded to know with no discernable effort at a welcoming smile, what we wanted. `We’ve come to pick up our books from Marcos,’ I said in a deliberately low and pleasant voice and with a beaming smile. `Did he ask you to come?’ she needed to know, `Have you received a telephone call from him?’ I maintained my beam, though it was difficult and assured her that he had emailed me. She then turned to her equally unwelcoming junior, who had clearly caught the hostility syndrome, and told her to `pop into his office and make sure that is so.’ We waited while the junior did her popping and when she returned bearing documents with our names on them I thanked them both profusely for their help and wished them a happy day though I wanted to suggest they book themselves in to a charm course. I thought I saw the older woman sneer but I wasn’t totally sure. To add insult to injury, when we finally got home we found that the annual bill for accountancy services had risen far above what one might deem reasonable considering the cost of living index. I wanted to know how it could be justified when I wasn’t actually earning anything. The husband pointed out that to be fair the seaside accountant had also attained a tax refund for me, and a somewhat smaller one for him. `So it works out OK in the end,’ he said gently, `If you did the work yourself you wouldn’t know how to get the refund.’ I tried to stop feeling so aggrieved but so far I have failed. I have not yet forgiven the man for last year when he tried to charge me for work I had specifically asked him by letter and by email not to do, so tolerance where he’s concerned is challenging. It might be marginally easier if he employed staff who knew how to smile occasionally.