My grandma had the most fantastic gift for finding money. Perhaps because a broken wrist relatively late in life had made her quite nervous about getting about, she always kept her eyes on the ground—and she often found coins. Usually it was pennies, but occasionally she found a 10p piece (this is before they were tiny).
Apparently, it’s genetic, because I’ve got some weird once-removed money karma thing going on myself this week.
It began on Sunday, when R and I were shopping at the Union Market. As we were paying, a man nudged R, said, “I think you’ve dropped something,” and handed her a dollar bill that was on the ground. It was a little awkward, because the chances were that it wasn’t R’s—I was the one paying, so she hadn’t had her hand in the pocket where she keeps her cash (or perhaps she’s one of those people who keeps her dosh in her wallet—isn’t it terrible that I don’t know?)—but it didn’t seem to be anyone else’s, and it was just a dollar, and their prices are a bit of a larf, so with some reluctance she pocketed it.
This evening, I was heading home from the subway when the woman walking alongside of me sort of crouched as we were crossing Sterling Place. When I looked to see what she’d picked up, it was a $10 bill. She was almost in shock. Perhaps she expected me to demand my share of the loot, but I’d never have spotted it on my own, and she looked so happy to have 10 extra bucks, I had no desire to pee on her parade.
Besides, there’s clearly something afoot. I was thinking that I should buy a lottery ticket tomorrow, but clearly, given the luck people standing next to me have had recently, what I really need to do is persuade a friend to buy one and then split the profits with me when they hit the big one.