I've got loads of money, but nobody in Scotland will take my cash

Nope, no lottery win, as yet, though I’ll keep Thunderballing.

It’s because the process of moving house and the accompanying clearing out has been accompanied by a handbag, trouser, jacket and coat audit.

Before those items go off to the charity shop, or textile bin, their pockets are frisked.

I’ve found tissues, mainly, hair clips, bus tickets and ticket stubs for the cinema. A furry chocolate lime or two. My membership for Diane’s Pool Hall, which closed eight years ago, and a signed photo from the late Supermarket Sweep presenter, Dale Winton.

However, the yield of actual treasure has been incredible - a few pence here, a couple of quid there, or a whole five pound note in the inside pocket of a puffer jacket.

I must have found about £100 in sterling. More than that, probably.

There have also been Danish Kroner, a Mini Cooper themed £5 coin, and a weird-looking almond-shaped penny that I thought must be a rare Roman denarius, but turned out to be one with a dinosaur on it that was re-moulded in the National Museum of Scotland’s machine.

I haven’t found one of those rare King Charles 50ps, with a leaping salmon on the other side, which are supposed to be worth about £50, though I feel I’m one pocket away from that.

Anyway, it's the first time in years that I’ve had a purse full of coins, and I love the heft of actual wonga.

It must be a Proustian thing, but I’ve never felt so wealthy. At last, I have actual pocket money. I feel as if I’ve been working away for the last few years, and just earning numbers, rather than real life shekels.

I’ve missed cash, since Covid and lockdown accelerated the use of contactless payments.

I think I had a vague notion that we’d start using it again, but that hasn’t happened.

Now, money seems like more of a concept, rather than a physical thing.

It was so much part of our lives, and then it was gone. I mean, it dates me to say that I don’t even know what a bitcoin is, but I do remember when 1/2ps were discontinued, back in 1984.

My other half doesn’t have the same attachment. He was desperate to get rid of his smash, which is ironic, as he’d been collecting it in a giant old catering-size Nescafe tin, with a tiny postbox slit sawed into in the top, for decades.

He’s like my frugal granny, who kept all her pennies in a big jar. We’d use it to play shops when we came over, but I don’t think she ever actually spent that haul. I kind of wish she had bought herself something lovely.

Last week, it ended up being me, who had to take my husband’s loose change to the bank. I had to Google where to find one, as they’ve all closed down and been transformed into restaurants, and it’s pretty hard to find an actual branch these days.

This one was surprisingly busy. I had to stand in the queue for 30 minutes, lop-sided, as I hadn’t considered how heavy a £20-odd quid of coppers would be.

At least he’d already portioned it into £1 bags, so I didn’t get the cashier's death stare, like the woman in front of me, who came in with a huge bag of mixed coins and emptied them onto the counter. The person in front of me in the line grumbled heavily about her, and didn’t seem happy when I ‘fessed up that I was also depositing coins.

The guy who served me was very pleased about the bags. He thanked me profusely and weighed each, though one was 1p up, another 1p down. Quick switcheroo, and we’re done.

Anyway, now that they’re transferred into my husband’s account, he can go back to virtual cash. I’m keeping all mine.

The only problem is, my windfall is burning a hole in my pocket, as it’s too difficult to spend.

I thought it’d be useful when it came to paying for coffees. However, cafes seem to be the very last places that still accept cash. I tried to pay for my matcha latte at a cooler-than-cool place the other day. My little leather purse came out, and I prepared to count out £5.20, or whatever other ridiculous amount they were charging.

“Do you take cash?” I asked, as he got the milk and green powder for my drink out. The look he gave me was multifaceted. It was withering, patronising, yet also world-weary.

Of course, it’s their prerogative, but it was like I’d asked if I could pay with cowrie shells. It’s amazing that, with one glance, someone can say, “Of course not, we are in the 21st century, you utter moron.”

Since then, I’ve carried my loot around and not really used it. The only place that I know will take my money is the local shop.

The woman who works behind the counter there seems to like the challenge. She’s obviously bored of the tappety cards. Still, I must be something of a rarity, as she still seems a bit blindsided, when I pull out my little leather purse.

Despite that, she takes the coins with relish, and always says “old school!” when I present my smash.

Thanks to her, my vast pile of riches is slowly depleting.

I won’t be this wealthy for long though, certainly if I’m going to be spending it on coffees.