Off I went to the Post Office, filled with the usual sense of existential dread. Our local branch gets the job done—just not in any time measurable by modern science.

I entered and my heart sank like a heavy rock in a bowl of trifle. There was a queue. Mostly made up of people who’d fought in at least one world war, possibly two. There was enough grey hair to carpet a forest.

I joined the line and felt valuable minutes of my life slough off like old skin. One old dear shuffled up to the counter and promptly forgot why she was there. The next was sending cards to her extended family—spread across 14 countries, and possibly several dimensions.

I stood there, losing the will to live and trying to remember if this counted as cardio.

Then, somehow, I was next. I filled out the forms—no idea with what, possibly the mad ramblings of a man pushed too far. I paid the postage. I didn’t care how much. I just wanted to feel sunlight on my face again.