Payback time...

I take back absolutely everything I ever said about the civil service. No, it is not peopled by a load of vapid, useless jobsworths, with all the drive of a closeted nun, the sensitivity of an Iraqi mortuary attendant and the IQs of lobotomised slugs.

I take it all back; on the contrary, from here on I am totally convinced that Malta's much-maligned civil service is complete and utter perfection. Or at least one particular branch of it is, the sector dealing with certain of my... ahem, tax issues.

This department has recently come in for a certain amount of opprobrium from some sectors of the media - and we are even told that a number of their far-seeing and saintly operatives are facing investigation and possible criminal charges. It is for this reason that I don't wish to be too specific on certain issues. Suffice to say, they are all alright in my book... extremely alright.

My old accountancy lecturer always used to tell us that tax could be fun. Back then, I thought he had momentarily lost the plot, but after my recent... association... with such a tax department, I really do see what he meant.

When I was telephoned a few months back by a Mr X, I thought it was a wind-up or some sort of sick joke. After identifying himself as an operative from that department, he came on like some clandestine spiv: "Psst! Wanna save some cash - and maybe make a little money?"

Well, I mean, who doesn't? But even after I replied in the affirmative, I was still just a tad sceptical... well, wouldn't you be? He upped the ante: "Meet me in the Friend-to-None Bar in Cottonera next Tuesday at precisely 8 p.m. You will know me, as I shall be wearing a red carnation. Do not - repeat in triplicate - do not - do not - do not approach me. I shall approach you casually and - as well as the carnation - I shall identify myself with the words: 'Good evening.' Is that clear?"

I said it was and prepared for... Lord knows what on the following Tuesday evening.

In the event, both the carnation and the greeting were irrelevant, I would have recognised the gentleman as a civil servant as soon as I clapped eyes on him. He was dressed in regulation civil service issue - snot grey cardigan, grime grey slacks and unpolished slip-on excrement brown shoes. Well your average civil servant has never been noted for any sartorial good taste.

He approached me in a furtive sideways shuffle, guaranteed to arouse the suspicions of even a blind and lobotomised amoeba. He sidled up close... too close (I received the full benefit of his anti-perspirant phobia) to me and hissed in my left ear: "Ara sinjur, I have it in my power..."

Power - incidentally - is very important to your average jobsworth civil servant, even if the power concerned is only perceived rather than actual. Where were we? Oh yes. He continued: "I have it in my power to save you 'thousands' of euros in these taxes. Here's what you must do..."

At which point he unveiled to me a somewhat convoluted plan to - as he put it - save me "thousands" of euros in these accursed taxes. Well what would you do? I, of course, accepted graciously and merely enquired into which Swiss bank I should pay his... modest (his term) commission. He gave me the account number and that was that.

Business completed. I shook his hand, told him it was a pleasure to do business with him and enquired en passant how the construction of his brand new villa was getting on.

He smiled (why do civil servants always affect the same sneery leer, in lieu of a smile) and replied: "Oh, nicely thanks. We should be ready to move in by the autumn. Er... how did you know I was building myself a brand new villa?"

I returned his grimace and replied: "Oh just a hunch... in triplicate, just a hunch, just a hunch, just a hunch."