Note: Canadian Tire Corp. plans to market a combined mortgage and chequing account.



I went to the big city and made a rare visit to my bank to query a couple of strange debits in my chequing account. As I stood waiting for the first available teller, I realized I was standing beside a large stack of tires. Not, I thought, what one expects to find at a bank.

“What’s going on?” I asked when I made it to the wicket. “Is somebody rolling in dough?”

The teller didn’t laugh.

“No sir,” she said, “that’s one of our new lines. We have to diversify, you know. While I iron out those debits of yours, could I interest you in some nice steel-belted radials?”

I gaped. “You mean I leave here with four tires tucked under my arm?”

“Heavens, no,” she said. “If you just look over there where the safety deposit boxes used to be, you’ll see we’ve knocked out the front window and put in service bays. I can make a teensy debit in your account, then you can roll your car right through the old window and we’ll get those tires on. After all, we are a full-service bank.”

I thanked her, refused the offer, closed my bank book and left. Tireless and confused.

And I grew even more confused when I dropped by my friendly insurance broker to find out why my premiums keep rising.

I always have a friendly visit with him, although it always costs me money. But this time when I sat in his client’s chair, he didn’t open a file. Instead, he plunked a large yellow tool chest on his desk.

“I’ve got a nice hammer drill here that would fit nicely with your deductible,” he said. “Or, if you already have one, we have a premium pneumatic nailer — or what about a jig cutter? You can do lovely dovetails …”

“Actually,” I told him, “I came to talk insurance. But now that I look around, this place looks more like a hardware store.”

“We still do insurance,” he said, “but now we are so much more. If you don’t fancy power tools, we have a nice set of Robertson screwdrivers on special, as well as some splendid high-quality chisels — already honed. Think of us as full-service insurance brokers.”

“I’d rather think of you as simple insurance people,” I said, pushing his hardware aside. And, although I managed to get the conversation around to rising premiums, I had a full set of Robertsons under my arm when I walked out.

I thought of visiting my broker, but her office is on the 45th floor and I felt that, as a full-service woman, she would probably be into pushing hang gliders and rock climbing. So, I did what I always do for comfort when I come to the big city: I stopped at my favourite gourmet food shop. I thought I’d pick up a steak and kidney pie, as much Stilton as I could afford and maybe a vial of truffle oil.

I picked up a shopping basket and was doing fine until I came to the oyster mushrooms. Beside them was a bin of 10-penny nails. And, beside that, a bin of lag bolts and, a little further on where the potatoes used to be, a stack of tail pipes.

I stopped a clerk.

“Excuse me,” I said. “What’s going on?”

He beamed. “Splendid that you should notice, sir. We are now indeed a full-service, fully diversified gourmet food shop.”

“But nails and bolts?” I blurted out.

He cut me off. “Oh, my dear sir, we are much more than nails and bolts. I said full-service and I meant full-service. If you make your way over to where the lettuce used to be you will find a nice line of mortgages.”

I fled.

But I had one last call to make — the main reason I had come to the city. It was time a visit to my proctologist.

However, as I was making my way down hospital row, I spotted a large truck outside his office building. On the truck’s side, lettering was painted saying: “Custom Plumbing. Fully Diversified. Drain Clearance Is Our Specialty. Power Rooters Of All Sizes.”

I turned and walked back to my car. I’m not ready for full-service or diversification. IE