Ah, Easter. The time when — as one relative once clumsily described it — we celebrate the death of Christ.

The sun is shining down between the buildings. I leave a batch run going on the computer at work, and walk up a block to my mother’s favourite book shop, to buy a gift voucher. Not very imaginative, but she would give me no further clues on possible birthday presents and I, to be frank, have no idea. After that I go another half-block to the bank machine. I walk back via the mall, listening to the tram drivers frantically dinging their bells, watching those few pedestrians with apparent death-wishes running out in front of them. Yet after they have dashed across the road, they don’t seem in a hurry.

I cut through the Royal Arcade. “Daniel!” It’s a bloke I speak to occasionally, and have met once before. He’s been doing his Easter shopping. We chat for a block as I walk back to the office. We pass Haigh’s along the way — of course it looks crowded, so I make plans to return later. He crosses Collins Street, so I keep on going back to work.

Two women missed crossing at the lights. They decide to walk along the road for some reason, a courier van leading a crawling line of traffic behind them. One nudges to the other to get off the road, but she takes no notice. Thanks to the courier van driver’s patience (who’d have thought?) they manage to avoid getting run over.

Later I go back to Haigh’s. It’s still crowded, and a security guard is there too. Can’t say I’ve ever seen security in place for chocolate before, but thinking about it there a few more worthy substances. I negotiate the crowds to buy some chocolate goodies. And I must find myself some hot cross buns. Yum.

Happy Easter.