Warning: the
first paragraph may induce headache, dizziness, confusion, or nausea, as it is
a brief description of various French administrative processes related to setting up a business here. Proceed with
caution, and above all, avoid any website which enumerates the different taxes levied on business owners in France.
Whenever I
receive a letter from the Préfecture (visa application), the French tax
office (income tax, business tax, housing tax, business rental tax, among others...), URSSAF (social benefits for self-employed workers), Ameli (health care,
but only for salaried employees; before I started my new business last year,
health care was handled by URSSAF, but now that I am salaried, it is handled by
Ameli), the Greffe du Tribunal de Commerce de Paris (oversees the founding of a
company and its annual reporting), the DIRECCTE (handles issues related to
professional development and training, which is the basis of my company), or B2B
(a private company that continues to threaten me for not paying into their
private retirement fund, but whose threats I patently send directly to the
recycling bin), I worry and fret as I open the envelope.
I
worry because the laws are confusing here, websites give conflicting
information, the phone numbers found on websites ring endlessly and emails often
go unanswered for months (aside from some exceptional reactivity from the préfecture
– although that is because they kept me in a holding pattern for over 18
months, even though I had a valid visa and they were aware that the
technicality blocking my application warranted some TLC on their part). On some
occasions, even, the physical address listed on an administrative website is
wrong (or out-of-date). I learned this once after hopping into a cab, rushing
across town, and attempting to speak to someone at DIRECCTE before the two hour
lunch break, but sadly the office had moved outside of Paris. Getting to their new
office in Aubervilliers is a story for another day (but in short, my bus broke
down and I ended up walking through a ZFU or zone franche urbaine -- which is like an inner-city zone in process
of development; companies in those areas receive tax incentives, but the ZFU
are also known for the distinction of being rather unsafe, and I had worn unfortunate shoes that day).
Last week I
received one of those dreaded envelopes from the Greffe. I was concerned
because I had just submitted my annual report, and since it was the first time
I’d done so, I wasn’t sure I’d completely understood how to prepare the
components. As feared, I had not.
For this
story to make sense, let’s go back to April 2013, when I was setting up my new
company. As a company with one shareholder (myself), I still have to convene an
assembly with the shareholder (myself) to approve all company decisions (that I
have made). So after creating the company constitution and getting it approved
(by myself) at a meeting (with myself), I sent the minutes from the meeting
(with myself) and all other documents to the Greffe. A few weeks later I needed
to make an amendment, so I had to host a meeting (with myself), write up the
minutes, and approve the decision I had made. I did so with my eyes in a
semi-permanent rolled state.
Fast-forward
to April 2014, when I had to write up my annual report and send it in to the
Greffe. I had read online that a company with only one shareholder need not
hold a meeting to approve the annual report, so I omitted this step. My
mistake. Apparently the information on that website was incorrect. The letter I just received from the Greffe has informed me
that I have been fined 2,33 euros for not stating explicitly that I, the person
who wrote the annual report, and I, the business owner, and I, the sole
shareholder, did not explicitly approve of the document that I wrote and sent in. And
yes, the fine was really two euros and thirty-three cents.
So today,
once I finish regaling you with this little anecdote, I will sit at my desk,
write a check for 2.33 euros and then write the minutes to the meeting I will (not--shhh!) have with myself and sign a letter which clearly states that I approve of the
work that I completed two weeks ago.
I have been
told that the current administration (Hollande, Valls et al.) has plans to
streamline the administrative work for small businesses. We’ll see about that…
Hysterical! The way governments are run is so ridiculous sometimes. Here, there, everywhere.
ReplyDeleteYour encounters with French bureaucracy take RIGAMOROLE back to its origins:
ReplyDeleteRigmarole
Pronounced /ˈrɪgmərəʊl/Help with IPA
It now means some lengthy and complicated procedure but an older sense was of a complicated and incoherent set of statements or a wandering discourse — I shall try to avoid any such tedious tale, but the history of this word is more than a little odd and takes some recounting.
In medieval times, there was a game called ragman, which seems to have been like consequences but with predefined statements. It used a rolled-up scroll containing descriptions of characters, each with a string attached. Players selected a string at random, the scroll was then unrolled and the associated passage read out, to the hilarity of all present (these were simpler times). There are also some suspicions that the same system was used for a gambling game.
The origin of the name for the game is obscure: the oldest form was rageman, said as three syllables, and this suggests it may have been French in origin — a character called Rageman the Good appeared in some French verses of about 1290. Others think it might have come from rag in the sense of tatters, used as a name for a devil (as in ragamuffin, originally a demon).
The name was transferred to various English statutes at the end of the thirteenth century, which were written on scrolls. With the seals and ribbons of their signers sticking out, these reminded people of the scroll used in the game. The most famous such document was the one in 1291 in which the Scottish nobility and gentry subscribed allegiance to Edward I before John Balliol took the Scots throne.
It seems the terms ragman and ragman roll passed into the language as a description of a long and rambling discourse, no doubt from the disconnected nature of documents like the rolls of allegiance. It later seems to have fallen out of use; it reappeared in the eighteenth century in various spellings, such as riggmon-rowle, but it eventually settled down as rigmarole, in the process losing any clear connection with the older term.
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