I'm glad I don't have to walk around Tooting at around 10am every day. I'd end up being sucked into the morass of anger and badwill to all men approximately 8 hours earlier than I usually do. The demographic of pedestrians on an average Tooting weekday morning consists of:

a) the unemployed
b) single mothers
c) the elderly
d) the insane
e) wealthy people who have got a bit lost
f) or any combination of the above

Members of a) hate members of b). Members of c) hate members of a) and d), unless they are already members of d) in which case they hate themselves. I could go on. It's a depressing spectacle, in any case.

The queue at the post office stretched out of the door while 3 cashiers wandered around behind their perspex screens, occasionally breaking off their gentle stroll to serve someone. Tempers were frayed, and if a Sri Lankan gentleman or Arab lady dared to wander in to the building to assess the situation, they would be screamed at by a phalanx of elderly ladies with shopping trolleys: “We ARE in a QUEUE, you know! That's why we're standing here! Goodness me!” before making 360 degree turns in the hope that they'd catch the eyes of someone else shaking their heads in disbelief. A woman who belonged in category e) had been huffing and puffing in the queue while carrying an expensive handbag, passport and a sheaf of forms in the hope that she could get said passport renewed. However, she had filled out the form wrongly and brought the wrong documents, and the poor Asian chap serving her had to break the news that she'd have to come back another day. She chose to deal with this by shouting through the screen in a posh voice “I can't understand you! I can't understand what you're saying!” Everyone else in the post office could, and a deathly silence descended while we waited for the denouement. After much pointless arguing, she shouted “Crap! Crap! Crap Crap Crap!” before storming out.

I went to collect stuff from my PO Box. The bloke behind the screen was explaining to a woman in a hajib that she couldn't collect the item if she didn't have any ID. She brought out her ID. Her surname was different to her husband's, though, and it was his name on the letter. “So you're married to this person?” he shouted, slowly. “Why Don't You Have The Same Surname?” The woman shrugged. “I'm married, right, and my wife has the same surname as me! Why don't you have the same surname?” He wouldn't leave it alone, despite having no understanding of Arabian naming systems – or indeed British women who choose to keep their maiden names – but full marks to the woman for tenacity as she wore him down with polite shrugging and ended up getting her parcel.

I'm not the calmest chap on earth, but the whole 40 minute trip was full of so much petty ignorance, stupidity, aggression and tension that I felt like I was on a higher plane, parachuted into SW17 to dispense wisdom and justice. Needless to say I didn't do so, as I don't like being hit.

As I walked down my road, a member of the local yout' in a baseball cap swaggered past me, while carrying a crisp sheet of A4. On the piece of paper was written boldly in felt tip:

5 – 2 = 3
7 + 3 = 8