The living room is now covered in little piles of paper. I don't even know what I'm putting in each pile yet. These things slowly sort themselves out, although it feels like a never-ending task at the moment. The problem with receipts is that they have a way of folding themselves around one another. They're crafty, shiny little things. You think you're picking a single one out of the pile but it fans out to reveal a week's worth of wallet padding and life becomes hugely depressing as you realise each one needs to be catalogued.
Then of course comes the big question. What can I legitimately claim for? And it's at these times I find myself sympathising with MPs. If I was on a film shoot and found myself buying a Twix to raise blood sugar levels, why on earth shouldn't I claim for it?
At the moment I'm trying to figure out if I can claim for osteopathy; the need for which earlier in the year was undoubtedly a result of my job. Hmm.
I've just revisited the list I wrote at the start of the day and discovered that I've ticked everything off, which has given me a sense of great achievement. The only thing I appear to have forgotten to do is eat, which at 10.15pm is not good news. There's no food in the house, so I've improvised a pasta source out of hummus, tomato purée and a third of a bottle of wine which Fiona started when she was round a few weeks ago. Tragic!