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Makes the World go Around

It’s quite possible these days, armed only with an Internet banking login and a wallet full of small plastic cards, to live life without ever needing to carry around more than a few pounds in cash. I remember when I was younger, credit cards still seemed to have some rarity value. These were the heady days of the 1980s, an era of annual fees and adverts for Access on the telly (“does she does or does she don’t take access…?” I seem to recall), when my dad used to joke every time he paid by card that he never carried cash, like the royal family (as if Charlie might flit around buying things for Camilla on his Visa card).

These days, though, it is almost possible to get away without carrying any cash around at all. The corner shop might charge me a fee if I want to buy a lunchtime sandwich with my debit card, but most other businesses will let me pay for pretty much anything electronically, in one way or another, for free. So it’s easy to become slightly divorced from the underlying cash involved in any transaction–my salary goes into my account, my direct debits come out, and I never see any of the actual money involved.

Yesterday, we had to sign the contract for the new flat we’ll be moving into this week, and, because our estate agent is still living in some other century, they would only accept our deposit as either a banker’s draft, or cash. Last time we moved house, I opted for safety, and paid with a draft, but this time I decided to avoid having to pay HSBC £10 just so that some monkey could print out a cheque for me, so I decided to pay in cash.

I presumed that withdrawing our deposit of two months’ rent (a not insignificant amount when you live in London) might be a complex procedure, involving all sorts of security checks and so on, but it turns out that it is laughably simple: write out a cheque to yourself, sign on the back, and that’s it. Suddenly the chap in front of you is counting out £50 notes before your eyes. And counting. And counting…

Maybe I’ve had a sheltered life up until this point, but there’s something strangely scary and slightly empowering about wandering around London with a large amount of money in cash. The chap behind the counter certainly gave me an odd look as I shoved the large pile of notes into the brown envelope I’d brought for the purpose, and quickly shoved it into my coat pocket hoping no one had seen me.

For the next 20 minutes, as I travelled on the tube to the agent’s office, I couldn’t believe that I was actually walking around with so much cash. I had to keep checking my pocket to make sure it was still there.

At the top of the escalator, there was a busker singing an old Fergal Sharkey song. For a few seconds I idly wondered what would happen if I just removed the small brown envelope from my pocket, dropped it into his guitar case and walked away.

But of course I didn’t–I went off to the agent, paid the money and collected the keys. I mean, I’m not stupid.