Found money is awesome. Typically it's twenty cents or a gold coin. For some reason people don't lose fifty cents. But for me the other day it was a crisp twenty dollar note, snagged in the grass and twitching in the corners from the wind. I found it just where an ant-trail-across-the-grass cut-thru meets the concrete behind the local greasy spoon, all laid out for me and ready for the snatching.
I'd gone on a quest to get a small milk, our pod having become coffee plunger people of late and a replacement carton needed. I tucked the twenty into my glove in the manner my mother used to wrist-conceal used tissues and then dramatically revealed the note in telling the lads when I got back what had transpired.
A free twenty!
Except ... I know ... magical thinking. Good luck like this breeds far greater ill-luck so they say. Who says? You know ... they do. They. Anyway in adherence to the philosophy of "...they..." I felt a little bad that I had snagged the note. I did actually look around for anyone who may be looking for a lost note, even retracing my steps on the way back in case its former owner had appeared to reclaim possession. But no.
Thanks to the budget our area had to let some non-ongoing staff go. Or rather their contracts ended and were not picked up. A farewell was being laid on for one girl and money was being solicited towards the festivities. In my pod we have another pair of non-ongoings who likewise face a looming contract expiration. As it is they're already having to look for other work and even contemplate lifestyle shifts like moving house. It's all very fucked and they keep getting dragged into social stuff at work and eventually stuff like that adds up in cost.
So I chucked the twenty in from all of us. I got rid of ill-luck and our contractor peeps got spared enforced costs of workplace socialisation—a cost far more easily born by time-serving mouth breather permanents. And with the twenty much food was bought and much merriment had. I even got to infer I had on leopard skin underpants and that my overpants were the quick-release Manpower kind. But alas no one believed me.
Anyway, the found money was put to good use and as far as 'sorry your contract ended' farewells go then it was fun—even if all I'd had were two home-made mini-quiches (1) and a sliver of brie.
Thanks, found money!
(1) Made by the delightfully handsome R--- who, in addition to being handsome, is funny, self-deprecating, and has now revealed he can also cook. Those who dig men in the pants department clearly dig R---. I can see subconscious preening amid the girls when he talks to them; 'Tee hee hee, oh R---!' (waves hand demurely). I've been weirdly blessed in life to, like George Costanza with 'Tonee', have been the friend of handsome men. To cruise along with them and see the girls perk up as they pass by. And I am ashamed to admit I get a bit of reflected glory. As in 'I may not get to sex you ladies but if HE sexes you then I get to potentially hear about it'; oh, yeah.