SENT the Government a cheque the other day, like millions more of us self-employed.

Not a big cheque, of course - times is hard in Beggarsdale these days - but

honestly earned with the sweat of my brow.

But I have three worries here.

Worry No 1 is that the Inland Revenue might lose my paltry payment, as they have done with a few million other records when their computers wired them into cyberspace.

If they lose mine, Worry No 2 is that they will pick some huge estimate out of the air, as they have done with millions more poor tax payers since Self Assessment was introduced, and send the bailiffs hammering on the door of Curmudgeon Corner.

I suppose that would give the village summat to gloat on.

Worry No 3 is in fact more of a grouse. You see, the Government actually owe me money. They have owed me it since last Christmas time.

And they are paying me about as fast as the rain and wind are eroding the peak of Tup Fell.

We are talking here of the Winter Fuel Allowance, which we wrinklies past the 60 mark were supposed to receive as a Chrissie present from Santa Brown.

As I had just passed that awesome mark last year, I was looking forward to it: after all, it was the first time in a working life of some 40 years that any Chancellor has ever given me owt.

So here we are, in mid-August, and my £150 (as say "my" cos Mrs C has yet to reach such a ripe old age) still hasn't arrived.

It would be welcome, too, for it might buy us a day or two in Brid, so long as we didn't have too many fish and chips at the prices they charge there.

But can I get it, can I heck. Some time in May, I think, I rang the social services, which was a bit of a bind cos they, too, have never given me owt in the past.

"Ah," said a weary female voice, "tha'll be wanting the special Winter Fuel Allowance hot line..."

Hah, bleeping hah, as Owd Tom would no doubt say.

It's so damn hot that it seems to have melted, for I have been ringing it on and off these past three months and it is

perpetually engaged.

Perhaps I should have deducted it from that income tax cheque I sent off last month but I fear that, had I done so, they might have sent in not just the bailiffs but the police, the Army and possibly the SAS too.

So if anyone out there cares to ring the following number - 0645-151515 - and actually gets to speak to anyone human at the other end, please inform that there is an old Curmudgeon down Beggarsdale way who would like a trip to the seaside before it is time to switch the heating on again.

PS The Doc and his wife are back from their hols next week to their totally re-constructed smallholding. Report to follow.

l The Curmudgeon is a satirical column based on a fictitious character in a mythical village.