our dealer

Our dealer is a thin elderly woman stooped with age and grey hair cut in an unfashionable fuzz. She shuffles about the more open of her two rooms, seeking out the merchandise we are here for, and attempts to engage us in small talk with a voice that has seen better days.

The barter system is in play here; no new-fangled currency for this traditionalist. As we whip out our offer, she purses her ancient lips with an appraising look that has probably chagrined many a solicitor. But it appears we have passed the test. She grudgingly hands over a piece of her limited store, and tit for tat, we exchange goods.

We walk away, a little bit richer and a little bit poorer, steeped in the high of our recent acquisitions and the knowledge that, inevtitably we will return.

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