I’ve wittered on in the past about the nonsense being ‘granted a rebate’ on a tax that, my being no longer a property owner in France, I was not liable to pay in the first place. There have been a couple of rounds of correspondence about the taxe d’habitation and the taxes foncières, and the postie brought a letter the other day about a sub-set of the former: the ‘contribution à l’audiovisuel public’. Each year, they ask you to say whether (a) you haven’t got a telly; (b) whether you’re covered by a licence at another address, or (c) or (d), which I can’t be arsed to recite. I patiently filled in the form stating, in essence, none of the above, since I sold up in November 2017, photographed said form and emailed it back. (I refrained from adding that I’d told them this a year ago.) At least they now give an email address which saves me the trek to the Post Office and the exorbitant cost of a stamp for France. Next steps awaited.
Meanwhile, we have booked train seats to Avignon in June, and a rental car at the station, so shall take another trip to Lagrasse to see how it’s coping without us. As before, we think we’ll drive to Ashford and park (and hope to find wheels on the car on our return).
Another quiz last night, with the same team as last year’s similar event in aid of Disgustedville Citizens’ Advice. Unfortunately, one of this year’s marathon sheets was all about sport, our acknowledged short suit. But another consisted of cryptic clues to local place names (eg angry tick: Mark Cross; damage study: Marden) so we still came third out of twenty-some.
Another letter in this week’s post brought the news that I get an extra £4-ish in state pension per week, less, of course, Hammond’s 40%. That’s a shade less than a bottle of Fortnums’ worst rosé. Let joy be unconfined.
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