Many of you will be familiar with the concept of the Walk Of Shame. This happens when you get pissed at a works do, cop off with that person from Accounts that you’ve fancied for donkey’s ages, and have to go to work the next day still wearing the clothes you had on the night before.
However, there’s another indicator that you might have pushed the boat out a bit, though I suspect this is pretty much confined to the male of the species, since women are a bit more organised. It’s the Pocket of Shame.
I’m usually pretty aware of how much cash I have on me. I don’t have a lot of money, so I tend to be aware of where it is. The exception tends to be when I’ve had a beer or two too many, as happened on Saturday.
I like to try to give the exact money when I’m in a pub. I know that, particularly at weekends, change can be a bit thin on the ground, so I’m just being polite. I clearly didn’t follow my principles this weekend, and did exactly the thing that causes the lack of rattling spondulicks in the till, and went to town on notes.
I awoke on Sunday in my own bed, not a bus shelter, which is a positive result. Nor was I still fully clothed, which surely qualifies as another positive. No, I hadn’t left all the lights on, so three in a row. I did however have the Pocket of Shame. Not so positive.
I had three £2 coins. I hate these and usually get rid of them as fast as I can, so I was clearly not thinking straight. I had 12 quid in pound coins. Then I had another two quid in shrapnel; 50p, 20p, 10p, and 5p coins. I had a grand total of 20 quid in change. It looked as if I’d won bigly on a gaming machine, except I never play them.
I also had about 4p in 2p and 1p, which means at some point I’d been to the CoOp, the last bastion of copper currency.
On the upside, I had 20 quid left, so hadn’t been blowing cash like a sailor on shore leave.