The problem I'm having with thursdays is that I'm struggling to find anything interesting to say about them. Back in my younger days thursdays used to be fun exciting times of the week because that was payday. The manager would come round and hand you cash in a small envelope. This was of course in the days before the internet became the preferred means of making friends. I'm not sure the internet was invented back then.

Unlike many of my older colleagues in the workplace I wasn't married, so no-one was going to mug me for the paypacket when I got home. There was a sort of medieval simplicity about life for me back then. Nowadays with credit and debit cards, telephone and online banking, the need to carry cash is much reduced. News of that change in financial behaviour has not yet reached your typical beggar however.

"Hey mate" Said a dishevelled ruffian stting on a car park wall as I strolled by. "Got any change?"

Nope. Sorry.

"Mate, I just want something to eat. I can get fried chicken for a quid. All I need is one pound..."

As much as I sympathise with his desperation for money to purchase food, I couldn't help noticing he was rolling a cigarette which I presume he was inteding to light and smoke very shortly. So he can afford to set light to dry shredded vegetation and ruin his cardio-vascular system, but not something to eat? I have to say that's one gentleman who is seriously in need of revising his priorities.

Sorry, but I don't have any cash with me.

I wasn't lying. I'd spent the last of it the previous night. One pound for a chicken burger. Didn't have any money left for cigarettes though. Had I been a smoker, perhaps I could have done a deal. Sadly that was not to be, because despite the suspicions of my doctor, I have no intention of smoking. So I strolled away with lungs, arteries, appetite, and bank balance in good shape.

Money For A Life Story

There's been some talk from a number of people of selling my writings for profit just of late. Having written that last sentence, I'm probably already under investigation by special agents of the Department of Work & Pensions determined to prove that I'm a dole cheat and thus liable for a different form of sentence. The sorry truth is no-one is sending me any cheques just yet. They'd better hurry up because the banks want to make cheques obselete. Just a little hint there.

Some years ago a chinese chap popped into existence right in front of me as I went about my lawful business in town. In one sentence, without taking a single breath, he gave me his life story, a tale of tragedy, misfortune, and misery, asking at the very end with barely a molecule of oxygen left in his body if I had any cash to spare.

This was of course in the days when people did carry cash around in bulging pockets and wallets. "Loadsa money!" was a popular comedy catchphrase. As for me, I was an aspiring musician and in the quest for the best gear I could find, much of my cash was spent on endless additional bits for my ever growing drum kit, plus the sticks, heads, and replacement bits that failed to survive my daily workout.

Make no mistake, I was not a quiet drummer. Apart from getting a band banned from almost every gig in Bristol for being too loud, we once attended a jam session at a pub in Swindon and played a couple of numbers, using a drumkit belonging to someone else. The owner looked fairly distraught and after we finished, claimed his drums were not insured for assault. Don't know what he was worried about. No damage at all. Mind you, one cheeky villain in a support band at a London gig deliberately sabotaged my own kit to spoil our performance. He failed of course, but if that rotten so and so is reading this, let it be known he still owes me twenty quid for a new bass drum head.

If we ever meet again, I wonder if he'll have that money on him? Or wil I have to tell the story before he remembers?