They got on at Malvern, and stood together on the train. One dressed like an accountant, one dressed like a student, neither saying much, just watching the world go by. Until Richmond, where the student whispered to the accountant about something on his back, and brushed it off. The accountant whispered thanks back, and they swapped notes on which stations they would each get off at, and chatted about their day ahead.

We rolled into Parliament station. I closed my novel and got off the train. Before he got off too, the accountant turned to the student. He gave him a quick kiss on the lips. “See you tonight.” “Yeah.”

Ah, young love.

You can do everything in the Post Office nowadays. I suppose that’s why they’re calling them Post Shops instead. They sell cards, telephones (mobile and fixed line), music CDs (what’s the point of those year CDs, eg 1970 including hits from 1970? I was born in 1970, but why does that mean I would identify with the music from 1970?), footy mascots, office supplies. You can also pay any of a multitude of bills, get photocopying done, etc, etc, etc.

All of which means I have to wait ten bloody minutes just to buy a book of stamps.