HRH

At last it's Wednesday morning! Sitting hunched beneath the letter box waiting for your dole giro, you rummage through an ash tray for a last remaining dog end. After what seems an eternity, the letter arrives!

Hallelujah! Eagerly ripping open the DHSS envelope you clutch the giro to your heaving chest, gibbering uncontrollably.

Regaining your composure you notice with a gasp of horror that it isn't your name on the giro! Thunderstruck you rack your brain for a local pub called the Queen Elizabeth... until you notice THE address.

The giro slips to the floor, the long line of zeros on it staring accusingly up at you, like Princess Margaret after you've nicked her last bottle of brown ale. Your heart throbs violently like Prince Andrew's chopper - but what can you do? It looks as if you've got the Queen's giro - surely she must have yours?

Will she have to resort to selling the corgis to MacDonalds to pay for a new chainsaw for Prince William's birthday present...? How is she going to afford meals on wheels for the Queen Mother...? And what about her clothing bill from Oxfam...?

Hoping to save the threatened dignity of our most gracious monarch you see yourself being knighted as you hand the Queen her dole money...