In my experience, there's nothing to beat an Inland Revenue form for inducing a state of total, heart-stopping terror.

Simply knowing there's an official form in the house, an uninvited guest demanding my attention, gives me the jitters, from the moment it arrives in April to the day of confrontation sometime in August.

So, not surprisingly, I worked myself up into a humdinger of a tizz a couple of evenings ago when I decided it was time to face the foe.

I took the form out of its buff-coloured envelope and started to read. Suddenly I had an overwhelming need to lie down with some sort of alcoholic drink.

I couldn't find one so had a warm, relaxing bath instead. No, not much of a substitute, I agree, but cheaper and better for keeping a clear head which is essential when tackling the taxman or his wretched forms.

An hour later my head ached and I was in tears. I was cowed, beaten, miserable.

Nothing made sense and the forms carried dark warnings about penalties and fines for late returns and errors, however innocent. Oh, woe was me. Then I remembered all those television ads starring Hector, the jolly little bowler-hatted tax inspector, representative of the new, friendly, non-threatening, "Give Us Your Money - Please!" Inland Revenue.

Any problems? Call Hector! So I did, or rather I called the Revenue's National Helpline. Yes, I actually called THEM - you can guess how desperate I had become.

A perfectly wonderful, warm, sexy, male voice answered my call. He told me his name (and it wasn't Hector) and asked how he could help. It was the voice that did it, breaking down all the barriers, all my natural reserve.

It was a voice that didn't say in so many words, "there, there, tell me all about it" but sounded as if it might - soothing, calming, reassuring.

I began to bleat out my problems, my insecurities, my frustrations - and then we got round to discussing my tax form. No, seriously, The Voice was so compassionate, so understanding, I felt I could confess anything - and be forgiven.

It was like talking to a benevolent priest or doctor. I imagined The Voice to look something like George Clooney; he sounded so tall, dark and handsome. By now I was completely enamoured and felt like saying: "Here, take it all, every penny I have, never mind a measly 20 per cent."

Finally, after about 15 heart-fluttering minutes, The Voice had set me straight - financially. He had guided me through the form and there was nothing to fear after all, my paperwork was in order, nothing was missing.

Regrettably I had to drag myself away and say goodbye. "Now remember, any more problems just give us a call," said The Voice gently.

"He sounds like a very nice man," said The Mother when I told her about my little chat. "Didn't I read somewhere that the Inland Revenue have been sending all their staff on courses to learn how to be charming?" Ah, I thought, The Voice didn't need any lessons on that score and I smiled affectionately at the buff-coloured envelope I held in my hand.

"What's that you're smirking at - a love letter?" the ever-observant Mother inquired. "Not quite," I said. "Actually, it's a tax form . . ."