The chronic curse of being an accountant is that you remember all sequenced numbers---old phone numbers, license plates, house numbers, ID numbers...sometimes you don't remember what or who the numbers belong to or why they're important. But they all stay with you. I once had occasion to call someone who I hadn't spoken with in at least forty years, and the only way I could get past his secretary and prove my legitimacy was to run his old phone number for him.
A more specific curse comes at the end of dinner out with friends, after cocktails and several bottles of wine, when the bill comes and it has to be divided three or four ways, and they always look to me for a dollar amount, and I'm three sheets to the wind. But hey, I'm the accountant.
Yesterday I went into the retail section of one of my favorite restaurants to buy some food for dinner. I ordered a piece of chicken al mattone, rigatoni primavera, a loaf of bread, cookies...OK, remember this is New York---the bill came to almost 50 bucks (it did suffice for two meals for She and I). The chicken and the pasta are taxable here, the bread and cookies not...trust me, I know it's arcane, but that's sales tax in the Big Apple, and the bread was $7 and the cookies $12 (remember, it's New York). My point is that I was charged too much.
And once again, I should have said something and did not.