I guard his belongings.
I am always there for him when he needs me.
I am Mr Running Buffet’s pound coin.
And this is my story…
I have been with Mr RB for quite a while now. He selected me from among a
horde selection of other pound coins available to him. Selected me. Not for me the indignity of being passed from one grubby mitt to another; from one disinterested owner to another. Oh no! For I was selected, chosen, picked to perform one special task.
I protect his clothes. I guard his bag. I am the ever-present constant coin that he uses to secure his locker.
Plucked from obscurity I was dropped into his bag, into a special pocket, from where I would wait, ready to spring out when called upon. Primed to lock that door like no door has ever been locked before. Where would he be without me? Unable to lock his locker, that’s where. Swimming up and down, worrying about his belongings? That’s no way to go about things. That’s why I’m here: to remove the worry.
Or, at least, I used to be.
I noticed a change in him about a month ago. Before that he was as keen as ever, excited even, and about to start a new challenge. I was there with him for the start of the 5×50 Challenge. Day 5, day 6: I was there. I locked, he swam. What a team!
But then, he changed. And I don’t mean from wet swimming trunks to (carefully guarded) dry work clothes. No, something changed in him. He hurt himself, I know that. He complained bitterly of an old injury that stopped him in his tracks. The day-on-day-on-day exercising of the 5×50 Challenge was over for him and I could tell he was upset. He tried to start again, but failed miserably. He only lasted a few days before throwing in the towel again (a towel I would have been happy to secure for him, if he had just asked me to).
He was still doing some exercise, he wasn’t completely stymied by this injury. But you could tell that his heart had gone out of it.
Then I noticed that he was working longer. Getting into work earlier and heading home later. This wouldn’t do at all. I tried to remonstrate with him, but he wasn’t having any of it.
And then we reached the day when everything changed. It was gone 5:30. He should have gone home by then, but there he was, still in the office. Under-exercised and looking fed up. He rooted around in his wallet among those transient coins; the sort that come and go with free abandoned. Except, this time, the cupboard was bare. The wallet was short of funds. He looked at me. I looked at him. He looked guilty. I looked regal. Quickly, furtively, he reached into his bag and picked me up. This wasn’t right, he wasn’t going swimming. What was going on?
He carried me to the vending machine. THE VENDING MACHINE. Oh, the indignity of it all. He had the decency to pause, look at me one last time, before he dropped me into the slot. I heard the pressing of buttons, the whir of the machine, the thud of falling confectionery. He pocketed two shiny twenty pence coins, the harlots, and picked up the Twix. It was like he was giving me the finger. Or two fingers. Bastard.
And that was how it ended. Our beautiful relationship. He with a chocolate bar in hand, heading back to his desk. Me in a dark and lonely box in the depths of a vending machine. I’ll bounce back, I’ll regain my glory days. Not sure about him though. We can only hope.
I’m back in circulation now, one of the many, not one of the few. Maybe we will meet one day. Maybe I’m in your wallet right now. Need anything locked up? I can provide references…