There are three counters at which customers can transact business at my bank - or to be precise, the layout is such as to make this a possibility.

More often than not, only two are open, while the third is closed. Furthermore, it is not unusual for one of the duet of tellers to disappear, brandishing paper, leaving one solitary member of staff to face the hordes, as did Horatius before his two chums turned up to help at that famous bridge.

There is some tutting from the ever-growing queue, but at least customers are in the dry and a sense of humour remains.

But cash dispensing machines - those holes in the wall - are another matter. When one ceases to function, curses are rained down upon the contraption and its inventor.

The other day, only one of the three machines at the local supermarket was working. It was a recipe for civil unrest.

An elderly mother and her middle-aged daughter were making a withdrawal. There was confusion about the pin number. Fortunately they didn't apply the trial-and-error method, otherwise the card would have disappeared without a trace. Nevertheless, they chose to wait until face to face with the keyboard to discuss the matter.

While this was going on, three people were in the queue, a woman, probably in her late 30s, facing persistent questions from her small child about the reason for the delay. It was not a good move. Suddenly she screamed like a Banshee and glared at the two women before dragging the bewildered girl towards their car, saying that the child could forget about the gift she had been promised.

No wonder the poor kid looked bemused. An unsavoury incident - but at least it reduced the queue by two.

The debate about the pin number continued. Half a dozen places to my rear, an elderly man stepped out and walked to the front.

"He's damned queue jumper," a chap of a similar vintage declared. All eyes were on this alleged usurper.

But he didn't try to push in or elbow the women aside. He looked first at one blank screen, then at the other, before benignly announcing he was just making sure they were not working.

"You don't think I'd be standing here like a lemon if they were, do you?" replied a much-tattooed muscular fellow.

Somehow this fruity simile seemed inappropriate considering the amount of blue dye across his epidermis, but the gist of his comment was universally accepted.

Finally the mother and daughter agreed on the number and began the transaction, the older woman announcing for all to hear that a balance statement was needed - in print. This was studied for a minute or so before they resumed, each digit struck with the greatest caution causing the maximum delay.

"Take the card out, mum, otherwise the cash won't come," said the younger of the two.

"Why?" asked mother.

A brief and incomprehensible explanation was given. The card was removed and the cash appeared before being carefully stowed into a purse.

The older woman stood firm.

"Shouldn't we have asked for a receipt?" she said.

I think it was the queue's growl in unison that persuaded her it was time to move on.

As I didn't understand the taxman's revised coding notice, I accepted the invitation offered in his letter to phone and find out.

"Why does my new code now have a prefix letter K replacing the code with a suffix letter T, and what is the significance of K, T or anything else from the alphabet?" I asked.

"That is for the benefit of the computer," the cheerful chap replied.

"But what does either letter mean?" I pressed.

There was a pause, a long pause. Eventually he spoke again.

"It's nothing for you to worry about, it's just a code for the . . ."

I beat him to the word computer'.