Despite being born three hours the shiny side of decimalisation, Neville - like his country - had always held a deep respect for pounds, shilling and pence.
Some coins a foreign language, like farthings, tanners and crowns but others, like the sixpences he kept in a disused plastic tube of effervescent vitamins, told stories of faded values. The joy of spilling them onto an old tea tray and counting them had gone but he fondly remembered separating the shiny new coins from the tarnished old ones; he’d wondered then why the new seemed to have more value, now he knew.
In time, he’d made his own investments, increasing his own stock; a mortgage, a wife, children, foreign holidays. He’d laughed at those strange foreign notes, the coins that jingled strangely in his pocket, a thousand lira for a single can of coke.
Now his own currency seemed on the verge of decimalisation, its value strange to new investors; his was the tarnished old coin that had been traded by hundreds of hands until, replaced by the new form of exchange, he had become contactless.
© Jack Leonard 2021