Counting the pennies

This week I tried to pay for something using my Kidney Donor Card.  Another restaurant I won’t be allowed back in.

Years ago “tap in” would have been something your plumber mentioned and “contactless” was when you were removed from someone’s Christmas Card list. 

This system of payment is a far cry from having a plastic-covered National Savings paying-in book.   I miss waiting in the queue of my Balham sub-Post Office and furtively looking at the magazines I’d never have the courage to buy.  I always thought both health and efficiency were very laudable attributes to have.

And the wait was invariably to pay in ten bob, a present from a generous aunt or the results of a money laundering scam during bob-a-job week.

My first experience of “money” was the pretend coins my dad would get from the Co-Op.  Because he bought Senior Service by the vat-load, he’d get plenty of these to save up for his divi.

I’d play with these coins, sharing them among my 38 hand puppets, telling them about Communism and the redistribution of wealth.   Sooty always knew what I was talking about; Willie Wombat less so.

I found my old paying-in book in the loft the other day.  I have £3 17s 6d.   Not even enough for another hand puppet. 

Wonder how much credit I have on my library card?

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