I inquire of the fashionably attired man whether he has any normal mail for me. I remember the good old days, when a single bill would flutter into the private PO box once a month - IF you were lucky enough to have your own private phone line.
Bills have to be paid.
So I get into my car and drive to the bank. My branch is located downtown, meaning there are virtually no parking spaces nearby. But I still have a key from the good old days, allowing me to enter an inner court. Trucks, excavators, assorted pipes lying around everywhere - it's a total mess. I've always managed to find the requisite few yards of parking space there until now.