If you love me, why do you treat me so badly?
Brief Memoirs of a Five Pound Note

Life for me didn’t really get going until I was discovered down the back of that sofa screwed up into a ball. First dose of reality, straight from the Royal Mint via the cashpoint to the forsaken dungeon along with the odd two pence piece and, ironically, a cash withdrawal receipt. They were pleased enough to find me, but after the ridiculously protracted conversation, if you can call it that, about how a fiver could have got through the gap, they wasted no time in exchanging me for twenty Silk Cut and a box of matches. So much for fond goodbyes! One minute I’m the answer to their prayers and the next I’m lying in a Bargain Booze cash register waiting for the next back-pocket Casanova to love me and leave me. I have to be honest though, it could have been worse. Considering what else was lovingly deposited under the cushions that had been my roof and at times air purifier for the best part of a year, I could have been exchanged for far worse than a packet of fags.

Unless you strike it very unlucky, like we all do from time to time, a fiver is not a bad thing to be. OK, we may never be there for people when they need us most, but the chance to buy the kids’ favourite sweets or bail the homeless out of an even worse night than they end up having anyway, can be worth the time you invariably spend shoved up against an arrogant tenner in the foulest smelling of new leather wallets. Incidentally, I’ve only ever been passed to one homeless person, and even this involved a minor exchange of the money gathered on the pavement in front. I don’t think anybody’s ever been happier to take charge of me, although she didn’t hang onto me for long either. You know, never was there anything so riddled with paradox as cash. The more pleased they are to see you, the quicker they want to part with you. I’ve helped patch up many a relationship, either through flowers or chicken tikka massala, and after even the noisiest of rows people can learn to love one another again. And I, the innocent and devoted party, can be cast aside time after time by people to whom I have shown absolutely nothing but unquestioning servitude.

The bitter irony of being plain old money is that we have to suffer the indignity of wrinkles without being able to happily reflect on the mis-spent youth that speeded up the process. I was as fresh and crisp as the best of them once. I could have been a contender! But it only takes one night stuck in the furniture, or being repeatedly passed across the bar in a Wetherspoons on a Friday night to make you look, and feel, as bad as the person you end up waking up with the next morning. I won’t pretend it’s a fate reserved just for us, but the love affair society has with money is similarly afflicted by the love affair it has with beauty. How many times have I been given up to pay for a paper while the customer chooses to keep a brand new note? Wisdom tells us not to take it too personally. They only want her for her looks. Or is it for her money? What else does she have that I don’t?

Even coins, who keep themselves looking neat into old age, can’t escape the law of diminishing returns that is inflation. Each and every day I mean less… I’m worth less, and it’s frightening! On my most recent trip to a football ground I didn’t get anywhere near the game, being left at the gate and shoved into a cloth bag with three more fivers. We spent the next few hours reflecting on how in the good old days it only took one of us to get the supporter through the turnstile. (Given the standard of catering at many grounds though, we couldn’t be quite as nostalgic about leaving them enough change for a half-time pie.) It makes you think. I remember how powerful I used to be. But now, I’m barely more than an insignificance, a mere accessory to man’s trivial pleasures. I need help from friends to buy anything worthwhile. I’m rarely invested, and seldom enjoyed for more than a few seconds. Dealt the cruelest of blows by BACS and the other phenomenon we know as plastic surgery, this truly is a dead end job!

People strike when their working conditions fall short of what they deserve, or if they don’t get to see enough of me. It’s flattering, but on the other hand cynical to expect me to take any of the blame. I work harder than any of you. I’m always on call, always performing to the best of my ability. And where are the rewards? I do this without pay, without prospects, without the right to strike. Imagine the implications of a cash strike! A call to action for all those stuck in piggy banks owned by children who think they have enough money to buy a detached house with garden! We could blockade ATMs, chocolate machines, refuse to drop when the telephone call ends. Alas, I fear that in today’s automated society the twin green-goddesses of credit and direct debit travel much faster than 35mph. I am still needed, but so much less.

I mentioned football. The attitude of football supporters reminds me somewhat of the rivalry we fivers have with tenners. We don’t hate them exactly, although we think we do. What we see them as is a threat to our own confidence. Scarcely do we admit it, but deep down we know we need them to fail just to make us feel better about ourselves. The football supporter almost always despises the next local team most of all and they need to beat them to validate their own choice of team. There’s no point in beating ourselves up over twenty pound notes, they may not see as much as we do, but even we don’t doubt their superiority. Tenners however are different. It feels good to see a tenner whipped out of a pocket from next to you to pay for a packet of crisps. Of course, you never see them again, but you still get to feel the same smugness. Coins are like the third local football team on the peripheries of the main rivalry. We’re too busy bantering with tenners to be bothered about coins. It’s not superiority that concerns us, it’s trying to hide our own inadequacy. What few wins we score are savoured, absolutely.

The best win of all is not having to spend time in cash machines. As I’ve said, my first encounter with the real world came as I was dragged at speed through the birth canal into broad daylight. Dazzling it may have been, but like the newborn baby miffed at being forced from its own lap of luxury, I didn’t really want to be put back! As fortune would have it, I never was. We see ATMs as some kind of punishment, perhaps for being bet on a dead cert that canters home without its rider. We are supposed to serve after all.

Countless times I have carried the hopes of the bored receptionist or the overworked labourer in their quest for riches, and a life free from being held in a telephone queue when they only want to find out their bank balance. The National Lottery gave life new meaning, new ambition, and sometimes, yes, I wonder what even we talked about before it started. There’s no way of knowing if I’ve made any dreams come true, but even if I had, one thing is for certain, there’d be no thanks for me. The missing link between poverty and wealth, the catalyst to a new life, I am indispensable, yet get treated like the cleaner in a Five Star hotel. Without me, there is no lottery win. The new millionaire would still be setting the alarm clock for six o’clock every weekday. I know this, I’ve seen it, I continue to see it, and I am why they do it, whether they realise it or not.

I like having a job that gives me the chance to travel. Abroad, no! All that happens is we get dumped at the airport for another currency. The love rats! If people do that to their partners there can be hell to pay! The alternative is being left in the hotel with the luggage and made to feel like a bad penny for a fortnight. If you’re in somebody’s wallet when they start packing the suitcases all you can do is pray that they’re the types that leave the taxi driver a decent tip. Either that or that they’re off to Butlins. 

Travelling about on duty can be pretty hectic though. I came down from Crewe to London one morning with a businessman who promptly changed me on arrival to get a twenty pence piece to use the station toilet. Glad I don’t have to worry about things like that. I then got passed to a student, along with another packet of cigarettes, just before they boarded a train to Brighton. So, half the country later and looking forward to seeing the sea, I get used to buy a paper, and lie waiting in the station newsagents to be picked up again and taken God knows where. Sure enough, back to London, used to buy another paper (although this time they had the decency to buy a Micro Mart with it) and then out to Bristol with a family who looked like I was all they had to last for a week. I didn’t get back to London for a third stint in the same till though, such is my nomadic existence. 

There’s a tendency to get insecure in banks, and not just because of the threat of somebody needing to key in a PIN to rescue you. Some shops use UV pens and this is fine, but in banks it’s different. Even though you know you’re for real it still worries you. Despite proudly sporting my silver stripe I have once, and once too often, been doubted. There is little more undermining to your self-esteem than anybody questioning your authenticity. I look the same as the others after all. I dread being drawn on, but it would free me from the gilded cage of anonymity I have to endure day in day out. I am not a free man. I am a number! Without my number, I am worthless. With it, still just a face in the crowd. Totally uniform.
There’s no real pattern in the way people treat you. Some scarcely notice you, although not many walk past and leave you lying on the pavement. I like that bit, especially when you consider how often they just walk past people in the same situation. Children tend to like you more, but it’s generally because they haven’t got to know you yet. They don’t judge you, just love you. They don’t understand your limitations like adults do. Adults’ reactions vary enormously. I had one bloke curse once because I was not what he wanted. Charming!  If only I’d had some say in the matter. Women tend to hold onto you for longer, but it’s not because they spend less, it’s just because they tend to use the exact change where they can. Some of those purses can be quite comfortable too. I’ve noticed in recent years there being more chance of ending up in a pub till when you are in the charge of a woman, but they still have some catching up to do in this respect.

The worst thing that ever happened to me was going through a washing machine. Fortunately I’d been put on the shorter cycle by somebody who washed everything on cycle 4. I’d been in the back pocket of a pair of jeans. They needed cycle 3 that time! The Royal Mint did me the kindness of making me Ariston-proof, but it was still no fun. Nor was being the object of some curious attention when they retrieved me. I was one of the first notes to have been made washproof. I’d have thanked them for not staring, but I was grateful I’d lived to tell the tale. It’s a shame the till receipt I was washed with didn’t come out equally unscathed. They needed it to exchange a shirt they had just bought. I enjoyed that. And they say there’s no justice.

Lack of money can cause social problems that subsequently money alone cannot cure. It’s not the case though that the people who see far less of you than others use you more sensibly. Some do, but others are so obsessed with you that they go to extraordinarily foolish lengths to try and get hold of more of the same. Take betting offices. You can be stuck in them for days on end!  If they’re lucky enough to win you, instead of leaving full of the joys of spring, they find another temptation and you’re straight back behind the window again. So rarely do they leave with you. Many of them don’t go home until they’ve emptied their pockets of you and all the other money that they were hoping to turn into a small fortune.

I still have the power to keep the wolf from the door for an individual, but say with some certainty that there is more likelihood that I’ll end up being spent on convenience food than on anything healthy. One consequence is the staggering reduction in space to be found in people’s pockets when they get you in their change. This especially applies to back pockets. In most cases, people buy healthier food in bulk, say for a weekly shop, so you normally don’t play any part in this. (And, most supermarkets only give cashback in multiples of ten. How unfair can you get?) When people use you to buy food, it’s generally for a quick snack, often one they are going to eat on the run. It sure beats being used in vending machines, but you can tell where the trend is leading to. I just hope the relentless surge of technology doesn’t make cash the slowest means of paying. Speed is one of our few remaining advantages.

I’ve been rejected a lot, mainly because of my size. ‘Haven’t you got anything smaller?’ they say. I’ve had people have to get back off buses because the driver refused to accept me. Are people so inhospitable that they fail to prepare for me by having adequate change ready? Aren’t I worth the extra effort? Sometimes they’ll ask for the ‘extra seven pence’. I don’t mind this, but you’d be amazed how often people seem unwilling to play ball. The silver lining is that we get a far better deal here than our great friend the ten pound note.

You generally only meet foreign currency in banks. It can be interesting exchanging experiences. Lire are nice. It’s a pity they don’t exist any more. Most of the Lire I’ve met over the years commented on the hard work we put in on the pub circuit here. Many Lire would work ten years and barely ever get spent on beer. Some say that it’s only tourists who take them into pubs. It’s not like that over here!

I can see the advantages of a move to a single currency but from our point of view it seems so faceless. The economics are fine, we know that, but what have we done for society? Subservient as we are, we would happily step aside and let the new order through, but turkeys don’t vote for Christmas. Then again, turkeys don’t get asked. I’m not against progress, I’d not stand in the way of a better world. I don’t however see why I should become surplus to requirements for this to happen. Surely the answer lies in people learning to make better use of me, to recognise the role I play and the good things that I do. Doesn’t one of the foundations of modern Britain, for all its shortcomings, deserve better than a swansong like this? For all the times I’ve helped feed the family, bought the first pint of a well earned celebration, or helped pay for the hot date that leads to marriage, aren’t I worth better? Maybe. But then, people are all too busy trying to get hold of me to take any notice of what I really am.

2786 words, not including title.

© Chris Trickett, November 2002