March 12, 2011


They were scrunching up notes when we got in. They didn't look very happy about it, something about the individual quirks in the way they crumpeled the notes. Something under the surface in the way they rubbed the paper between their hands and teased out the edges that was traumatic but bonded them to each other. Bob placed 50s between his palms and rubbed furiosly. David idlly tore edges and stoked 20s with his finger and thumb. Clive rubbed, scrunched and tore until the paper was ragged and thin. I picked a fresh one of the table. It look okay but as soon I touched it there was obvoiusly something wrong, the quality of the paper was wrong. When I looked closer the lettering and designs were at a slight angle.

After a while it was often down to me to attempt to break the 50s. It usualy wasn't a problem, I was 17 and if I made my eyes big and smiled a bit lots of problems dissolved. As far as I can remember I have never been comfortable with that, before or after. Back then for a while it was fantastic. I was unfazed and bought fags, skins and cake with dodgy fifties in supermarkets, local shoppes, gargages, handed them to bouncers, barmen, my mother and usualy only had problems if I wasn't on my own.

Dodgy fivers reminded me of this. Skills not what they were, haven't abondoned me completly got to keep my shopping but have to pay tomorrow. Might have been more down to wee man's tantrum than my bambi eyes though...