So, I'm in my favourite place this lunchtime - you've guessed it! Camden Post Office. I'm not having a the best day so far: people have been trying to shove me on the train and the tube, and having told the council about my seagull-lovin' neighbours, they are not prepared to do anything.

This is the same council that wanted us to pay more for regular bin services and supply us with a wheely-bin (which I have already) because "litter from split bags left on the street is a health risk and encourages rodents". It's ok if you fling decomposing fish over the place for seagulls though, it seems.

Anyway - it's the Post Office's busiest day today, apparently . . . so how many people have they got on the counter? Three. The queue snakes around the interior and pokes out the door into the rain. Every new arrival heralds the sight with a quiet "'kin ell!" as they take their place.

I'm stood behind a guy with one sock and a coat that smells like the biggest, smelliest wet dog you could ever imagine. After twenty minutes another chap shambles past . . . his are the old trainers left at the entrance to the post office which I noted with curiosity earlier. His feet are black with dirt or gangrene and smell like something ancient, dead and very evil that has been disinterred from some rotting swamp by foolish archaeologists.

He shuffles unsteadily past, trying to focus on the swimming blur of reality in front of him. Poor sod. This place is bad enough even when you're sober, it must be the worst trip ever if you're twisted. With some effort he pulls out a Fanta lemon bottle and takes a swig - although the smell suggests the chemical composition has more in common with brake fluid than soft drink.

He stops. He sways. His lips tremble and a thin string of saliva strecthes towards the ground. He looks like he is about to hurl.

Everyone starts shuffling backwards, even Mr One Sock Dog Blanket, for whom the difficult prospect of being even more repulsive threatens suddenly to become reality.

Panic over. Mr Fragrant (for such I dub thee) manages to focus on some point in the methanol-blinded twilight and starts shuffling once more to be reunited with his shoes. Whew.

Half an hour more in the coughing, scratching and twitching queue. We are blessed with a number of people with nervous tics, including one woman who blurts "ohh!" at short intervals accompanied by palsied trembling. "Please, " I say to whatever Deity may be listening "let this not happen to me when I get to that age." Here's the human condition . . . everyone and their colourful medical histories shuffling round a drab shop like they're in a chain gang.

I'm secretly hoping for counter #8, run by the nice Sikh gentleman in the turban. He's ultra-efficient, knows his job and is always polite and cheerful- the purgatorial weariness that clings to the other staff I've met here doesn't affect him. How does he do it?

Sadly I get the chap next to him - the one who used to work in Great Portland Street and was exceptionally rude to me once for no good reason whatsoever. He doesn't remember me, of course - it was nearly ten years ago. But when grudges are concerned I can make an elephant look like a goldfish in comparison.

No, I'm not the least bit interested in a credit card, mortgage or holiday insurance, just post the damn parcel, already. I don't say that, of course, but as our emotionless black shark-eyes meet as we exchange banal and meaningless pleasantries I mentally hope he suffers from some severe gastric disorder this Christmas.

"Bleeaaarggh!" comes a noise from outide the front of the shop, closely followed by a chorus of disgust. Sounds like Ole Faithful has just popped.

Part with the required cash (and they are losing money still? How??) and watch as he takes the parcel from the chute and plonks it on the trolley - I've had one go walkabout before which they claimed to have no knowledge of, even when I had the damn 'signed for delivery' receipt.

Remember on exiting to avoid the rain-diluted pool of stomach contents from Mr Fragrant (mental note to self - find a more suitable name). It's largely liquid, some lumps of mush being hammered into an even more homogenous mess by the rain, but has this stringy, slightly opaque quality like an egg being fried in a pan that isn't hot enough.

Fragrant himself is propped up against a telephone booth further down, a cascade of glistening saliva curtains his chin and straggly beard, like Ridley Scott's Alien.

Poor bloke. I doubt he'll live much longer and I'm fairly sure any money given to him will just accelerate his self-destruction. I want to say something to him, but he's too drunk and ill to understand, so I stand there, wandering what exactly it is I feel. And why. Until some thoughtless prick in shopping blinker-vision collides with me and calls me a cunt for delaying their ingress into Waterstones.

Christmas in North London. Ho Ho Ho.