The day began with a trip to the post office – always an adventure here, though not always a successful one.

We’d bought small gifts for our granddaughters, Aila and Billy – both of whom turn 10 in September – but previous encounters with Poste Italiane suggested it wouldn’t be easy to get the gifts home to the girls. This experience proved to be no better. The now familiar conversation went something like this …

‘We’d like to send this small package to Australia.’

‘No, you can’t send it,’ the post office person said.

Ignoring her response, I waved paperwork at the perspex window. ‘Is this the correct document to send this package to Australia?’

‘No.’

From the other end of the counter, a man who seemed to be the boss looked up from his own customer.

‘No!’ he yelled at me. ‘You can’t send that package to Australia.’ He couldn’t actually see the package from where he was sitting. ‘It’s impossible! It must be open. For the customs.’

The woman gave me one of those ‘I told you so’ shrugs, but I wasn’t done yet. Ignoring her again, I called to the boss.

‘If we open it and show you the contents, can we send it?’

‘No,’ he yelled back.

‘What if we make the declaration on this form in triplicate, as we’ve always done in the past? Would that be okay?’

‘No!’ What followed was a stream of rapid-fire Italian that I had no chance of understanding, but of which I definitely got the gist. I tried pleading.

‘Sir, I have my passport here.’ I was waving again. ‘Wouldn’t that help?’

Apparently not. Poste Italiane was not to be swayed – no presents were heading for Australia that day. Admitting defeat, we gathered up our package, paperwork and passport, and retreated to fight again another day. Which, as it happened, turned out to be the very same day, only this time it was a different battle, and on the train …