After a lovely two week visit, Hazel and Tony are back to Cambridge tonight, via London. Tony (who is singing in the kitchen as I type) just returned from mailing home the pocket knife he purchased at Kidron’s Hardware, in Amish Country. 2 ½” blade, perfect, he announced to Tom on the way back. Then, “Bloody hell, I can’t take it on the airplane.” So Mr. Regular Bloke and my brother-in-law drove into “your little village” and dropped “three quid” at the post office to preempt TSA. “Yes, OK, not bad,” Tony said.
In the meantime, I purchased my loom, and I will even tell the price because it figures significantly. $150.00, Canadian. The owner sent me photos of every square inch of the loom, which he bought long ago and never used. It is a 36” Fanny LeClerc. Anyone who looks up current retail will just shake their head in disbelief.
Because neither the seller nor I have a truck, he broke it down to fit in his wagon, and is bringing tools in case we need to disassemble more of it to fit in my car. He even sent me the link to assembly instructions; I think he doesn’t believe I wove on the same loom for twenty years. Without metric tools to make repairs.
I digress. I bought the loom three weeks ago; the seller took the listing off Kijiji and held it without payment, and now has disassembled it for me. Further, he is driving a hundred miles to a hockey match with his son and will meet me, essentially on the other side of the Peace Bridge.
I went to the bank and bought two one hundred Canadian bills to give him. The purchase took twenty minutes of paperwork, and not all because the teller had to consult her supervisor, who also read every line on the computer screen before touching a key. It was the paperwork! I could take thousands from the ATM machine in less than a minute, with no questions asked. If I had thousands.
I was to return today, after noon, to pick up the money.
The receipt of what amounts to pocket money took another twenty minutes. Temper would not facilitate the transaction, so I settled for putting my forehead on the counter, in clear view of an extra person, who I hope was a regional supervisor. I looked up only to sign paper work and retrieve my driver’s license, which had to be copied.
The delay was frustrating because I also needed to drop my car at the garage for new tires, which I need before winter in any event, and am a good enough citizen to think ahead and not blow out a tire on our interstate or, heaven help me, the Queen Elizabeth Way.
Now baby has new shoes, Tony and Hazel will be home in the morning; the loom on Sunday. I have no idea how fast the post office moves a little knife for three quid postage.