The first writing exercise I picked said; 'follow the course of a ten pound note for a day'. Given the current circumstances, it seemed appropriate.
Money (914 words)
Someone got a bonus today.
The notes slide out of the cashpoint as though dealt by a croupier; their temporary owner tucks it into an Aspreys wallet; initialed, (not on the outside, that would be vulgar) but under the flap.
The man pulls a tenner out again in low light, flattering to ageing complexions veined, like port-soaked stilton, with overindulgence. He is surrounded by men in suits, all nearly identical to his own, all very expensive. Their shoes, brogues to a man (women are rarer than trainers here) have a subtly lavish gleam. He leaves the company credit card in the back of the wallet - it's use is not considered appropriate in the current climate. Until the token few have been thrown to the wolves, until it’s business as usual again. He nods at the other members of the club as he hands the tenner, with a bunch of its fellows, over the bar.
It goes as change to a younger man – his wallet is initialed on the outside. He doesn't know there's a wolf at his heels. He's seen the mess all around him, but he's confident he can continue to walk the tightrope. Other people may fall, but not him. He has a highly expensive, professionally decorated flat, a highly expensive, professionally decorated girlfriend, and a car that makes other men shudder with envy. He's a survivor; he calls for more champagne. He's just the sort of irritating, brash young fool the tabloids love to rage over; someone will slip them a copy of his drinks bill.
Next the tenner goes as a flashy tip to a weary waitress, who puts up with the accompanying grope because she needs the job. Off shift soon, thank god. She hides the note. The boss isn't beyond swiping their better tips, and she's bloody earned it tonight. Her arse feels covered in smeary fingerprints. Leaving, she transfers the note to her purse, next to the receipt for the designer jacket she bought last weekend; she's going to have to get a new credit-card, that one's hit the limit. She’s heard they’re not handing them out like sweeties any more, but it’s never been a problem before. And she’s bought so many clothes partly because she can fit into a size ten now; the one good thing about serving food all day is that it's ruined her appetite. Just to make sure she doesn’t get hungry, on the way home she buys a packet of fags.
There aren’t many other notes in the till at the newsagents; he takes most of them out as soon as there's £100 in there, shoves them under the floor. He has safe, for the more persistent, professional criminals; it holds £500 which is the most he reckons he can afford to lose. The insurance bastards still haven't paid up after the last robbery. He wishes he could give it up. His back aches, his wife is too scared to work the nights; but the kids like to have the same stuff as their friends and he hates to deprive them. Why shouldn't they have nice things? Though last Christmas he looked at the presents, stacked up and spilling across the floor, and he did wonder. He'd had a stocking and one big present, when he was a kid, and glad to get it. But he’s doing this so the kids can have a better life than he did. He’s been socking the odd tenner away in a Christmas club – it’s not much, but it’s better than nothing.
The woman buys cheap wine and bananas. The note gets shoved into an ancient purse, held together with a rubber band. She managed to save a bit this month. She’s hoping to afford a holiday next year. She sometimes wonders if she should put the money in a pension instead but a tenner a month is hardly worth it; besides, she's only 30. She hurries to get home and tries not to see the man sitting on the pavement. There's so much dirt on his face the lines look as though they've been etched with acid and oh, God, his feet are bare. It's November and brutally cold. His filthy feet are shaking with it.
She shouldn't give him money. He could spend it on drugs and die. She'd have to get close to him, he’ll smell awful and he might be dangerous. And she was saving up to go away, somewhere warm and pretty. It’s the feet that do it, the horrible pathetic feet. Angrily, she snaps off the rubber band. Angrily, she opens her purse, digs out the tenner, leans down. She wants to say something pithy, something that will penetrate, make sure her tenner, her tenner, dammit, doesn't go to waste.
"Here," is all she can manage; she shoves it into his hand and stalks away, before he can pull her in, make her try and do more.
He stares at it. A tenner. He has problems thinking straight, always has; there’s a lot of noise in his head. He used to be in a place where they gave him stuff to keep his head quiet, but it closed. There wasn’t any money in there; but he knows a tenner when he sees one.
It gives him the impetus to get up. He walks on feet he can’t feel, remembering that somewhere in a nearby street is a place where he can get tea.
Someone got a bonus today.
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