Shopping to me means food. For everything else, there's the internet. Well, almost everything else... There's still one necessary evil from ancient times that requires standing patiently in a line of sniffing, coughing people in knitted hats.
Yes, the Post Office. Irrespective of the time of the visit, the queue always reaches the door. Apart from anything else, it means that everyone in the queue will get whacked in the back by the door as another victim joins in, breathing a sigh of exasperation as they do.
20 minutes later, I finally get to 'Cashier number Two Please', fully loaded with the collective queue's diseases. I buy 2 stamps for Europe (... and no, there's nothing of value in my Christmas card), which takes about 10 seconds.
Am I now allowed to escape? Don't be silly. The face of the cashier suddenly glazes over (mirroring my already zombied grimace), and launches into a carefully rehearsed sales pitch. I only have 15 minutes of my lunch break left and I still need to get some real shopping. 'Do I need to top up my mobile?' - 'No, I'm on contract'. 'Do I ever use a credit card?' - ' No, I steal everything I need'. 'Do I need insurance?'... At this point, I'm feeling slightly uneasy. Have I upset Cashier Number 2? Will there be a horses head sticking out of the letter box when I get home? The crowd behind are twitching away wildly and I'm being sold everything I already have and wouldn't go the Post Office to buy, if I did need them.
As I leave, whacking the poor end-of-queue victim in the back and gasp in the fresh air, I can't help wondering how long this venerable institution can survive...
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