But in your heart, you wishfully dream of Stanley #1s and ebony bridle ploughs.
Now I don't do Ebay. At all. I dare not, because I will be bankrupt within a week. Tops. So I was happily ignorant of this tool chest, potentially full of promise but in all likelihood actually full of rust. But I have thoughtful readers out there, ever ready to apply a heap of grease to the soles of my feet and give me a hearty shove further down The Slope. They even smile and wave as they do it, the considerate sw-... people.
So not one, but two emails arrived in my inbox saying "Hey, Alf, have you seen this?" and helpfully pointing this tool chest out. In fairness there wasn't long to withstand before the listing ended, but by gum, what a test for me and my notoriously sparse willpower. I mean, c'mon, guys; would you sit a recovering alcoholic down in front of a bottle of whisky? And this wasn't even a good single malt, but some home-brewed potcheen that'd likely cause blindness. Sheesh. ;)
Anyway, by now you're already shaking your head and saying "I know where this goes. You gave in, didn't you, Alf? Come on then, where is it?" Well ya boo sucks. I resisted to the bitter end. Okay, so I may have looked when the auction ended, just in case it hadn't sold and maybe consider contacting the seller and asking "What about it?"
But it sold.
So that's all right then. Don't mind at all. Best result. Dying of curiosity, wondering what was in it? Me? Don't be silly.
So when I open the local paper this week, automatically perusing the classified ads, it was with some despair that I realised even without the helpful emails (Which really I love to get, guys. Honest), I'm still perfectly capable of torturing myself.
It's fine. I'm absolutely fine. If there was anything worth having, it will have already sold. Wooden planes? Who needs 'em? The chances of there being anything by Madox or Gabriel or... No. It's fine.
Odds are heavily against a bridle plough too.