by Henry VIII renews his residents’ parking permit and discovers that even a returned king must prove where he actually lives
I once granted free passage across my entire kingdom to anyone I personally favoured, no documentation required beyond my own word. The council required proof of address dated within the last three months before it would renew my resident’s parking permit for a single additional year.
The Document Search
I searched my flat for a suitable utility bill or bank statement bearing my current address, a task complicated considerably by my general habit of discarding official-looking paperwork almost immediately, a habit I now regret given how thoroughly this century insists on proving where a man actually lives before letting him park outside his own home.
The Online Portal
The council’s online portal accepted photographs of the required documents, uploaded directly from my phone, a level of digital convenience I found genuinely impressive right up until the system rejected my first attempt for being, in its own words, insufficiently legible, forcing a second, considerably more careful photograph taken in better lighting.
The Vehicle Details
I was asked to confirm my vehicle’s registration, make, and colour, details I provided correctly on the second attempt, having initially transposed two digits of my own number plate, an error I attribute generously to unfamiliarity rather than the considerably less flattering explanation Dev suggested.
The Payment
The permit itself cost considerably more than I expected, priced, I learned, according to my vehicle’s emissions rather than any flat annual fee, a system I found genuinely more sophisticated than most taxation I personally devised, which rarely accounted for anything beyond a man’s visible wealth and general willingness to pay without complaint.
The Confirmation
Confirmation arrived by email within two days, the permit itself entirely digital and linked automatically to my number plate, meaning no physical sticker was required at all, a modernisation I found genuinely convenient once I stopped mourning the absence of anything tangible to actually display in my window.
The Verdict
I parked outside my own flat that evening with a genuine, quiet satisfaction, having navigated an entire bureaucratic process without a single phone call required. I once simply parked wherever I pleased by virtue of being king. I now require a permit, a utility bill, and considerable patience, and I have decided, on reflection, this is probably a fairer system for absolutely everyone else on my street.
The Following Evening
I parked outside my own flat that evening with genuine, quiet satisfaction, having navigated an entire bureaucratic process unaided. I once simply parked wherever I pleased by virtue of being king. I now require a permit and considerable patience, and it is probably fairer for everyone else on my street.
Fairer for everyone, myself very much included. I have decided fairness, however bureaucratic, beats simply parking wherever I please. The permit paperwork sits properly beside my succession plan. Further reading on the wider chaos of modern Britain: Burnham’s own homeowners tax plan turning boiler repairs into an oligarch’s problem, London’s ongoing talent for charging you simply for looking, the original account of my own return to Britain.
