In Australia it is not the post officer but the postie who brings the post. With his bright uniform he is quite a spectacle. You can’t miss him on his bike in his neon yellow uniform, neon yellow helmet with even a neon yellow neck protector cloth. Yes you need those here against the sun. No one likes neck skin cancer. Nope!
One day, I saw one and the same postie four times. It was one of those days, when you realize how small the world can be. It seemed that wherever I went, the postie popped up like a mirage.
The first time I saw him, when I went to have coffee at a Graffiti café. While I sat there nipping my latte, a Fitzroy postie came in to bring the daily mail. I must have stared at him. He stared back. I saw him the second time about twenty minutes later, when I went to the supermarket, to do the groceries. Unfortunately the supermarket ran out of my favorite coffee brand, so I went to a small shop up the road, where they sell everything European, even the Spanish bacon is hanging from the ceiling. The third time, I saw the postie, on my way home from that shop. He must have thought I am following him. At least his face was telling me so.
In the evening I went to the bottle shop and there he was: behind the counter staring at me. Not in his uniform but jeans and an attendant’s apron. Still the same guy: the postie. I looked at the floor hoping that my face wouldn’t sell me out.