IRONBARK
Millthorpe, past the bakery, the shop with the yellow sill. If you need something this morning, come in. If you need it in a packet with a barcode, the big place on the highway is closer to what you want.
The drawers along the aisle are nails, screws and the odd thing that didn’t have another home. Walk the aisle if you like knowing what’s there before you drive over. The gate job is a separate story.
Eleven pairs of 75 mm hinges are in the tin under the window, not in a blister pack. They came off a demolished verandah in Orange and they shut properly, which new ones sometimes don’t. Ask and I’ll put a pair in your hand. I’m not lining them up on a board for a photograph.
The counter in the back room is where the tape measures and the gate screws live. Gate screws are under the counter because last time I left them out, they walked.
Bullet heads, fifty millimetre, in the jar with the chipped rim. You say what you’re fixing and I put a handful on the square of paper. There isn’t a box, and there isn’t a price ticket on the jar. If that bothers you, it should — you’ll be happier at the other shop.
Open from eight. Closed when I go to the yard, which is sometimes the middle of the day and I leave a note on the door.