Is Webfiling difficult?

No.

Webfiling, for the uninitiated, is something you have to do after each year of company ownership. Companies House, the disconcertingly aptly named government institution behind limited companies, requires that once a year you tell them where your company is, who is running it, how many shares you have in it and how much you would like to give them £14 for the pleasure. They then allow you to continue as you were, while they resist the temptation to send you further letters with exciting red information explaining what sort of fine and/or criminal record you will get for neglecting to webfile.

As the Soliloquy has very occasionally been used for information purposes I will offer a little more information, just in case. It took me 15 minutes, I didn’t need anything but the reminder letter they had sent me and it’s so idiot proof I even felt compelled to fill in the “how was your experience” form afterwards to tell them that they must surely all be wonderful people and I wished them nothing but happiness and kittens.

That being said I am currently in the honeymoon period of submissions, although companies house doesn’t call it that. They are in the process of looking at my documents, after which they will email me to say if they liked them or not. Perhaps they might even send me a colourful letter threatening a fine, but I can’t remember if there was anything about it in the pre-nup.

I hope that has satisfied anyone who might be genuinely interested in webfiling, for since then my mind has been shamelessly absent, and has managed to get very little done. This is mostly due to the fact that just as I was finishing the questionnaire about how much I had enjoyed telling the world about my company, it started to snow.

As it was a Saturday afternoon Barny was at work, leaving me to deal with playing in the snow by myself. I made up a vague excuse to leave the house, booted up and shot out into the snow to enjoy the lovely feeling of being the only human on earth. Perhaps it’s just me, but that’s what walking in the snow alone is like. The muffled noises of cars crawling home is so distant and ghostly that all you can hear are your own feet, making a glorious, satisfying crunch at every step as you head out into the unknown.

Having reached the unknown, I posted the letters and began the journey back, noting that someone had passed here, not long ago, heading out into the wilderness behind me. Their footprints are already fading as the blizzard continues, and I thought longingly of the kettle I’d set to boil just before popping out.

That cup of tea was tea of victory, and only slightly diminished by the horribly spring-like thaw the following day.