From my office window in Melbourne, where I work sometimes at Victoria Law Foundation, there is a cool view of a section of the inner city, featuring a rooftop car park, just below us.

There was a guy there this morning engaging in a comical, solitary wrestling match with some oversized cardboard he was for some reason transporting from the back of his car onto a trolley, and which he then wheeled, crooked and uncertain, out of the car park and down into the street, muttering to himself and having the odd, brief but pointed word to a renegade portion of cardboard.

It was a self-contained, private moment in this little guy's day (he was little, you see, because I was five floors above him and he was struggling with something bigger than himself).

It made me think of all the private little battles I have with myself every day, each of them characterised by the inward-looking, quiet muttering of a person who is not being watched.

Except, probably, I am being watched from the fifth floor of a nearby office building by someone who is gazing outside because she can't think of another word for "access".

Just saying. You're being watched. Oh yes you are.