Is it right to expect unpaid hours from your team
Richard Brewin • March 21, 2023
In 1981, when I first came into the accounting profession, unpaid overtime, in my experience, wasn’t really a thing. Office hours were 9am to 5:30pm with an hour for lunch between 1pm and 2pm. If people arrived earlier or left later it was generally because it suited them to do so, usually for travel arrangements.
If someone did work later, or, in practice, take work home because the office would be locked up, it would be because they felt responsible for taking too long on what they were doing and were looking to catch up. Compliance deadlines, for unincorporated businesses especially, were yet to really hit us and so backlogs were much less of an issue. The phrase, “A job takes as long as it takes” was commonplace, even if it was as wrong then as it is now.

The body content of your post goes here. To edit this text, click on it and delete this default text and start typing your own or paste your own from a different source.

Question… Should accountants charge for the additional work and obligations they will have when MTD ITSA finally comes into play next April? Not sure? Let me ask another one… Should business owners and taxpayers be expected to pay for the work that their accountant does for them and for the expertise that they receive? Put down in black and white, the answer seems obvious but there are many in the profession who are losing sleep over this issue.

Accountants selling to their clients is a topic as old as the profession itself. I regularly hear criticism from those looking to monetise the accountants’ relationships with their clients that “accountants can’t sell”. I also come across an attitude within the profession that “accountants shouldn’t sell to their clients…it’s unprofessional…it’s not what my clients expect”. Let’s tackle the issue.

Back in the 60’s and 70’s, when I was a lad, doing the family laundry was a time consuming chore. Mum would disappear into the kitchen and close the door so that the noise around the rest of the house was at least manageable. She would be in there for hours, swapping between washing, rinsing and squeezing out. Every so often the noise level would resemble a fighter jet taking off on an aircraft carrier as the tumbler element kicked in and then she’d reappear, wooden tongs in hand, to ask for help to reposition the twin tub that had danced across the kitchen floor.