With hindsight it would appear
that synaesthesia was a gift
unsuited to his profession.
Having pored over the books
for some days, the accountant
declared that while the texture
of our finances was generally pleasing,
musically they were an abomination.
An entirely new composition
would be needed. Days were spent,
frantically rearranging numbers
in line with his internal melody,
flinging decimal points around wildly
according to the rhythmical requirements,
and discarding whole sections that
simply sounded aberrant.
He declared his magnum opus complete
just in time for the annual return,
sending the books to HMRC as an MP3.
They were returned with a polite but
curt email about the wrong attachment.
Our response was apologetic:
Right attachment.
Wrong accountant.


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