In exchange for this cup of tea (strong, two sugars, just how you like it), I'll take a blue Rizla paper and a pinch of tobacco.
You offer me a half-eaten apple (a Hitchin Pippin), assuring me it is the sweetest, juiciest apple you have ever tasted. I take it reluctantly, and in exchange I give you a water-stained prayer card -- St Dymphna, a lily in the crook of her elbow and a fettered demon at her feet.
I give you a sock puppet with button eyes and a red felt tongue. You put a mother of pearl brooch buckle into my pocket.
For a still-warm oatmeal and raisin biscuit wrapped in tinfoil; a milk bottle you found in the stream bed, packed full of emerald moss.
A notebook -- blank now that the first four pages have been ripped out -- is swapped for a string of fake pearls and a diamanté brooch shaped like a lizard, with red glass eyes.
An iron file for a forked hazel divining rod.
A bone lace bobbin for a pack of old playing cards - on the back a bottle-green mermaid chases her tail through a forest of water weeds.
We shuffle, cut the cards three times. I draw the queen of spades; you the knave of hearts.
You hand me a pen made from a goose quill and a bottle of black ink. I sign my name with a flourish; give you my hand, palm facing up, trusting you will take it.
You offer a rumba; I counter with an American smooth foxtrot.
In exchange for your great-grandmother's wedding ring -- old Welsh gold, peachy as a California sunset -- I hand you a plane ticket, for anywhere in the world, economy class, one way, non-refundable.