On Thursday last, I went to my post office to check my mail and noted, with some surprise that there were three same-sex marriage postal survey envelopes inside. One was addressed to me, the others to a married couple -- I’ll call them the Smiths -- who had been previous tenants of my post box.

Over the past few years that I’ve rented this post box, I’ve received enough of the Smiths’ mail -- the junk mail I throw in the bin, the rest I would take the Elvis option and readdress as “Return to Sender -- not at this address” -- sufficient to work out what the Smiths did with their lives: they’d run an auto-service business, had an interest in wine, guns and mail-order junk, had various superannuation, bank and insurance accounts and received birthday and Christmas cards from friends.