A loaf of bread, a container of milk and a stick of butter.

Eschewing a shopping list and unaccompanied save for some jazz flute and percussion, the shimmering little girl from Jim Simon's 1972 I Can Remember animated short, swaggers her way to the neighbourhood store as if a long, lost member of the Cosby Kids.

On the sidewalk (footpath), she repeats her mother's inventory over and over, never missing a beat but, crucially, once before the grocer's cash register, the final item eludes her. Tragedy is averted, however, when a maternal apparition helps the child remember the stick (packet) of butter and our beribboned heroine returns home, triumphant with her trophic trinity.

"You have a good memory, honey," her mommy (mum) says.

Perfection.

I can remember never really liking Sesame Street that much. It seemed to drag on a bit, was unctuous in that preachy, American way and frankly, our homegrown Play School was just better (John ... hilarious) but back then, the fledgling PBS TV series was undoubtedly groundbreaking, and reportedly remains so half a century later, if not a little creatively hamstrung by its own legacy.

Purists know the show jumped the shark when Mr Snuffleupagus was outed as non-fantastical (and when bloody Elmo turned up), but nothing can dilute its enduring influence. Thanks to the Children's Television Workshop, many of us, to this day, still can't count to 12 without succumbing to funky flashbacks of pinball psychedelia, nor can we hold a grudge against pigeons.

Could be worse.

Sesame Street works so well because its own mantra is "sincerity" and it mines the mundanity of childhood with surgical care, mythologising something as paltry as a kid's maiden errand with the developmental gravitas it deserves.

Just like that little girl, albeit of a different hemisphere and lacking her effortless cool, my job was to also visit the local shop before school each day and fetch the morning's staples. My mantra was: "Two litres of milk, The Northern Daily Leader and a packet of B&H Extra Mild."

You could also cash cheques.

The death of the corner shop has long been lamented and shan't be overly eulogised today (although their resurrection seems eminently sensible in the shut-in suburbia of coronavirus) but one overlooked service these universal retailers inadvertently provided was an uneasy portal between kids and the adult world.

We might not have necessarily enjoyed them, but those little acts of commerce and community were important; teaching us skills on the hop amid all the hot-cheeked humiliation.

Moving Pictures, paint, well, just the picture in their 1980 hit What About Me?

As a "little boy waiting at the counter of the corner shop" I can't say I was ever "pushed around" or "knocked to the ground" (quite feasible in some parts of our town), but I was forced out of my comfort zone.

I had to calculate change and produce it on demand when asked for "correct money" (maths), speak clearly and succinctly (communication), answer nebulous questions I didn't understand (philosophy/politics) and basically be obsequious, polite and wait my turn, no matter how eager (marriage).

Sometimes, there was even a glimpse into the uglier side of life (sociology). I distinctly recall one morning, when a woman descended into a vituperative rant declaring Lindy Chamberlain's obvious guilt. The aggressive soap-boxer so repelled me, she awakened something inside and I'm pretty sure that moment helped inform a lifelong cynicism and default suspicion of the herd mentality.

It's because of these inimical traits, I also have very few achievements to speak of but one of them is directly linked to my counter intelligence training.

I'd taken it upon myself to buy my first pair of shoes: a spiffy cloth boating variety I'd been eyeing off for weeks and was subsequently short-changed $10. I protested doggedly enough, standing my ground and assuring the retailer I wasn't a 12-year-old conman but she dismissed me and I eventually left, feeling as hard-done-by as someone from a Moving Pictures anthem.

The following Monday, at school, a girl much older than I (and much adored from afar) presented me with an envelope containing my losses.

Turns out her boss was exactly $10 proud come the end-of-day stocktake and tasked her Saturday morning assistant with tracking down the injured party for recess recompense.

Thank you, corner shop; because you taught me about cash and confidence, I got my money back and the girl (OK, not the girl but she did talk to me, once).

Around the same time, I felt similarly empowered when I became old enough to begin visiting the barber's by myself. Taking responsibility for what's happening with your scalp is a genuine rite of passage but whenever I think about my walks downtown for a scandalous "short back and sides but leave a bit on top", I'm filled with sadness because it reminds me of how 13-year-old Daniel Morecombe was on his way to get his hair cut and buy Christmas presents when he was abducted that December in 2003. The fact he was taken while on one of his first grown-up outings just makes the crime all the more heinous and his death all the more heartbreaking.

We certainly don't have a corner shop in our village, but the pub sells a few essentials and a smattering of in-season produce, as well as being the all-important Australia Post outlet. Desperate for action, our kids are always volunteering to visit the pub by themselves so they can check the mail and bring home some milk or eggs, maybe even sneak back some candy (lollies).

Of course, their motivation is far from pure and we know they're gagging for a Wonka-esque golden ticket to be in the post office box, signalling one of their grandparents, all of whom live many hours away, has sent through a care parcel, as if the children have been forsaken in a refugee camp as opposed to ensconced in a cushy life of occidental privilege.

But I love watching them head off, observing their own rituals of independence in a place they're already, quite rightfully, growing out of.

It's something they'll remember.

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