Going postal in Canada

As the time stretches out, I find myself shifting from foot to foot, shifting the weight of my prepared parcel.

The line-up in the post office isn't long, but there appears to be a mini-drama going on at the counter. Granted, it's rather one-sided; the postal clerk is listening attentively to a lady dressed in flowing, multi-coloured garments, which say "aging hippie" elsewhere in Canada, but "business as usual" here. She is gesturing expansively with her back to me and I'm the third person in line, so I can't quite make out what she's saying, but she has a rather battered looking parcel. Talking steadily, she periodically waves slips of paper for emphasis.

The women just ahead looks back at me and raises her eyebrows. I grin back.

After what seems like a rather long time, the clerk asks her if she has a receipt. There is a slight pause.

"I was kinda hoping you would believe me."

There's an almost imperceptible collective sigh of exasperation from the line-up, but no one yells.