Post Office

Large, central Post Offices are odd places.
Quite aside from that disconcerting voice that beckons you to the counter ("cashier number five, please") there is the clientele*.
Now, I don't want to appear non-PC but odd people seem to visit central Post Offices. It's a fact.
Today while queueing to post my banker's draft to Belgium (see previous post) there was a woman in a tracksuit shouting instructions to the cashier while listening to a portable radio. This made communication somewhat difficult. Then, at one point, she stopped and said in a loud clear voice:
"This music is doing my f###ing head in!"
At the other end of the row ("cashier number two, please") there is a mum with a pushchair and a face full of stainless steel piercings. At the risk of sounding like Seinfeld/Larry David, what's the deal with lip piercings? When you do that big gulp of coffee thing where you swirl the liquid over your front teeth there must be some sort of incidental fine spray.
If I make a point of not sitting near these people in cafes** and bars, this could be taken the wrong way.
Perhaps I will need to think about this one.

* I need to work out how to do accents on this thing
** My education demands an accent here but it isn't necessary in English. I can't just leave that sort of thing hanging though without a footnote. As someone once said : "a pedant is what someone who is wrong calls someone who is right".