I have a box of coins.
Every coin of a value greater than one cent has been removed.
It’s a box of next-to-valueless coins.
Each trip to the street, results in more of these discarded, forgotten fragments.
Individually, so valueless are they that the guys begging on the street are now charging 40 of them to make it worth their while begging it from you.
For years they’ve snuggled-up at night beside paperclips, watch batteries, receipts of returned goods and safety pins; all stuff of momentary value, but typically of none at all.
On occasion, a €2.11- or a €4.42-type bill – you know, for a head of cabbage or a box of bandages – boring stuff, makes me wish I’d grabbed a few of them, but only then.
It’s either the bottom of my box, or the acute corner of someone’s third-favourite pants.
Only together are they worth considering. They might combine to make four or five quid, not a lot, but they probably feel pretty good about it. Power in numbers.
They cling to the once-whispered rumour that if they were melted-down they’d be worth more on the copper market.
So, I’ve decided. Each time I venture out of the house, there’ll be ten one-cent coins accompanying me, and I’ll aim to use them. Let’s see if I can give them something to exist for again.