All change


Or at least I might have been. Well, technically. Or if not technically then at least nominally. Or Metaphorically. Possibly.

Anyway. I have mentioned quite recently thatMy Beloved collects small change. Or at least has a problem spending it. Perhaps, I sometimes wonder, he was a great billionaire in another lifetime, for spending anything of small denomination seems below him. Standing and counting out change at the till is for lesser men than my Beloved. Pity them!

Of course, he would say its a time-saving device. Which is a dull explanation.

Whatever, he comes home and scatters change like a magic change fairy. Wherever he sits, wherever he lies, wherever – ladies, please cover your eyes – he drops his troos, there shall change be scattered like oats. Little shiny oats.

Which was, you know, ok. Well, no, it clearly wasnt, it drove me insane. There were at least three jars of one pences and two pences and five pences that I had quietly scooped up and deposited, and anything larger than that I would take when we went shopping together and count out at the till for groceries.

And only occasionally would it tip me over the edge. Only, perhaps, when hoovering, and when every stroke of the big sucky schnozzle was interrupted by me bending over to pick up some change from its path. And swear, most likely. Also when picking up clothes from the floor. And plumping cushions. And hanging clothes up (crikey, I sound terribly put upon and domestic, but it was only the pay off for being the person who didnt have a three hour commute, I promise you) There was a moment of very colourful dust-allergy-fuelled temper-loss witnessed only by Twitter during the move, in fact:

TUESDAY, 14.56pm: Scooping up laundry sends a shower of loose change flying; someone should feel lucky theyre at work today, otherwise theyd be eating it.

She said, in typically ladylike fashion.

So yeah. Change. We had it.

We put it in the bank before we left. I sat and piled it up and bagged it and took it down there and it was more than £50 and that was very nice. It bought several bottles of wine to fuel the packing process. Which I drank most of. Obvs; it was only fair.

But still, I had no idea what that change-obsession was going to turn into, once we moved.

See, the problem here is not that the shrapnel is too small to bother with – though no, let me rephrase, the problem here is not ONLY that the shrapnel is too small to bother with – but that the other notes ALL LOOK THE SAME.

I mean, yes, its very nice money and someone, somewhere, has had the time saving and logical idea of making almost every single bill look pretty much the same, which is all well and good, but

Theyre all the same size!
Theyre all green!
God bless them, its very democratic and reasonable – why should one note be more privileged or have highter standing from birth just because it has a higher value or is bigger or prettier or of a different colour?
No, say the federal bank of amerimoney! They should all be equal! They should all be equal and have an equal chance in the world, your wallet etc.

See? it is a beautiful ideology in theory, but when you live with My Beloved?

This means that instead of a one pound coin being the quickest thing to identify and pay with, its quickest for him to identify and pay with, say, a twenty dollar note, and then deal with the rest later.

And the problem is that these things dont clank in the pocket. Or fall out easily. Or throw themselves around the floor the way the others do (dont worry, we still have also spare change, not so much has changed about us in the last week).

And thus its much harder to notice when they go through the wash. Until you reach into the tumble-drying thing to try and work out if it has made your clothes dry to discover theyre not just dry, theyre making crumpling noises. And then you pull out a dollar note. And then another dollar note. And then five dollars. And then another dollar. And then some more dollars.

Basically, I have been laundering money.

You know, like the mafia.

Im up to $93 so far, and have noticed that the only thing questionably legal about the practice of laundering money is that it makes it smell nice, but harder to fold.

You have to say to the lady in the shop Im sorry the money is all crumply, its been through the washing machine. And the tumble dryer. And then she looks at you funny, and then hands you some gum or something from behind the counter because she couldnt quite understand your accent. And then you have to buy that too, with another crumply dollar.

But thats not illegal, I dont think. Just annoying.
Annoying but minty fresh.

That should maybe be the new slogan for the mafia:
The Mafia – yes, we may launder money; were annoying, but minty fresh

Sorry I had to get up very early for work things today and am a bit over-tired.
I go to bed now.