The phone rang.
A voice asked, "Am I speaking to Mr. Pulo Chritensi?"
"You are", I answered.
"I'm Mr. Spencer, calling from The Inland Revenue. We have now had the time to go through your accounts in both this country and abroad."
A shiver ran through my spine.
"It doesn't look good", he added. "your tax declaration is miles away from our findings."
"Well, I can explain", I said desperately. "I'm sure there must have been some sort of mistake somewhere".
"You will get a chance to explain later he said. I am sitting here with my good friend from the Middleburg State Penitentiary, Mr. Jones. We were wondering, whether you would prefer to have the sun in the morning or in the afternoon. That is why we call you. Of course it is not a definite choice, you can change cell every year - after the first three years."
That's when I had a notion, that something was not right. The Middleburg State Penitentiary closed down two years ago!
On the phone I heard someone laughing in the background. It was a prank. Two old colleagues were having me on. I felt relief, and a meeting at a bar downtown was quickly arranged.
But isn't it amazing how the mere mentioning of the tax authorities will call forth the most Kafkian feelings in you? You think you have everything right, but it is complicated, and can you be sure you have not left out a zero or entered something under a wrong heading? And they have all kind of information about you. You can't hide anything.
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