I rather thought she now stood further away from her end of the counter. In her mind I was no doubt shedding ugly on her desk, she had to get further away. Sneaking a peek at my zits (I'm sure she did), she hands me my mail. The word international flashes in the air: I get international mail and your job is to hand it over. Thankyou. Make-up from overseas.

With the promise of fro...