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Nobody, not even the Mail, knows how much, if any, amount the Royal family give to charity. Prince Harry has 16 patronages, having his name as a patron of these charities means the world to them. They certainly do not send cheques to charities, most people in the UK do not make charitable donations in that way. I give to three charities and donate monthly by direct debit, some people donate through their mobile phones. Cheques in the UK are not common any more, we rarely receive them or use them for purchases. I actually do not know anyone who has a cheque book.

With its mislabeled entrance and exits, limited space and unobstructed view of the local traveler encampment, the car park depresses upon arrival. Its surrounding flower beds contain no flowers but do provide refuge to an uncountable number of beer cans, fast food wrappers and fossilising dog poos. Someone even took the time to origami a Papa John’s pizza box into the shape of a demon. The traveler encampment strikes one as relatively quaint after catching sight of a smoke breaking Sainsburys butcher blowing wads of snot into the palm of his own hand.After driving around in circles for half an hour I finally find my parking space. Just like the rest of the spaces, it's no wider than a poodle's penis. It takes a good ten minutes of fits and starts but my reversal into the spot is a success. Success I define as being honked at less than nine times and completing the maneuver with only one side mirror ending up on the concrete.Experience has taught me to stretch out before these visits because getting up and down the pavements - pavements no wider or dryer than a slip-n-slide - will require sucking in my gut and doing a sort of sideways shimmy, trying, almost certainly without success, to avoid the oncoming brigade of prams and pensioners, the tattooed teens, the stumbling hobos and, more often than not, our parish clerk, knees pressed to kerb, vomiting last night's libations into an unpruned council shrubIt will come as no surprise to an experienced British High Street visitor that the post office is situated inside of a convenience store. Yes, squeezed into the far back corner, very near the Doritos and across from the maxi pads, a woman in a dumpling stained red Royal Mail shirt scrolls through her iPhone, avoiding potential customers by carefully positioning her head behind a bargain rack of DVD’s. Her response to ‘hello I’d like to buy some stamps’ is to rise up from her stool with an audible squish, place a lit cigarette between her lips and wordlessly exit through a side doorI pass a Kentucky Fried ChickenA cash machine covered in pub sickManny's MattressAnd arrive at the Oxfam Charity shopWhere just inside the entrance I find a legless garden gnome leaning against a pile of cigar stained pre-internet encyclopedias. How much for that kicked and cracked ceramic buddha? The one standing on those socks someone died in last week. Look - only nine pounds for these rectum scented granny slippers. I hope nobody has placed a hold on those Tracey Ullman masks. I would ask the nonagenarian woman behind the counter but with her white head resting on the cash register it appears that she’s asleep, perhaps even dead.An abandoned Wimpy BurgerSanjeev's Chip ShopBargain BoozeAnd I'm now standing outside Costa Coffee’s tiny Tudor times dwarf door. If I do somehow manage to get inside without bashing my head I'll be rewarded with last place in a queue twenty seven deep, all of us hunched forward, forced into a Parkinson's crouch by the medieval five foot ceiling, its decaying wood beams dropping the occasional sliver into somebody's eye. The loo? You mean the one with the toilet seat that hasn't stood upright since Labour was led, very briefly, by the long dead Michael Foot?A plus size bridal shopScrewfixAn ‘everything must go' Babies R UsAnd I am back at the car park. Without stamps. Or coffee. Or my Sainsbury's roast. Standing in a long queue with a full bladder, wondering if this pay machine wants a credit card or debit card or exact change or wants me to pay by phone, in which case I'll be forced to stand here in the pissing down rain, shouting my number plate into the receiver - trying, and almost certainly failing, to be heard over the encampment drums and torrential winds - knowing that my phone, undoubtedly, will very soon slip from my hands and meet is violent end on the unweeded concrete, just like the last time, and the one before that. As I rummage around my pockets looking for change I know I don't have, I take a moment to reflect on another high street experience.I've seen items that shouldn't come within a hundred miles of a price tag and toilets that prisoners would complain about. I walked through pools of piss and clouds of cigarette smoke and was knocked aside by a double wide pram and knocked back again by a souped up mobility scooter. A barista cough directly into an espresso cup. I stood before a Hamptons window and learned that somebody paid six hundred and fifty thousand pounds for a bed sit above the Vodafone.A homeless woman suggested that I look like an overweight John TravoltaWill I be back?Will I voluntarily expose myself to the physical wear and tear of the High Street? The mind numbing frustration, the emptiness, the mental anguish that each and every time drives me, without exaggeration, very close to suicide?Of course I will be backWhy?Because the beating heart of this nation is not to be found within Number 10Or Lambeth PalaceOr even The Queen herselfThe beating heart of this nationThe beating heart of this cold crap miserable nationThe artery clogged cholesterol filled barely beating heart of this once great nationIs to be found right hereOn the British High Street

It`s impossible for a companies customers service to understand how their customer feels with or without A.I. when they directly agree verbally what shall be carried out by them which they later fail to carry out, not once but on six occasions.ExampleRefunding of accumulated credit transfer (£138.80) by electronic, B.A.C.S. repayment directly into my bank debit account preferring to send a cheque to my residential address through the royal mail.After explicitly telling them that my bank has closed all of their local, bank branches, agreement that the cheque will be cancelled and credit by electronic, B.A.C.S. shall be made directly into my bank, debit account. .