My Little Penny Day. By Uncle Monty.

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“My heart goes out for all the poor hooooooooomeless,”
she declared with her tad of snooty, upper class accent

and nasal inflexion. For a moment, I also thought she was a

talking giraffe looming over me as she opened her non-stop
mouth to bare her gleaming white teeth for us all to see.
The more her mouth opened, the more I was convinced she
thrived on benignity despite her tall neck swinging and
turning with the propensity of a lady giraffe as she talked
her talk to me. There was, however, nothing gibberish in
her heartfelt voice other than I wasn’t sure if she was also
a modern day Florence Nightingale dressed in disguise
in her expensive, if not rural, Genappe. Her gewgaw
jewellery also made me giddy as she laid on her heartfelt
sorry, thick and thin, upon me like some kind of moral
pulpiteer. She was indeed caught-up in the rhetoric,
but not the reality of homelessness. I’d never met

a talking giraffe before, until I met her!!
“You see, I do read The Guardian and read all about those
poooooooor people we call the homeless. It makes my
heart pulsate just thinking about such a dreadfuuuuuuuuul
situation for them. Mind you, I know I would faint at being
one of them …” I wasn’t sure now if I would need next to
dial 999 for an emergency ambulance to help resuscitate
her and pick-up her fallen out dentures off the sidewalk
or pavement as she laid helplessly with her quivering
mouth now gasping at her last panting … Plus, her spread
legs showing her pressed and spotless pinky knickers …
I had no doubt, however, her heart was in the right place,
but I wasn’t so sure about her non-stop mouth and her
pink undies. Pink isn’t my favourite colour. What I did
discover most was that certain giraffes can certainly
talk the talk. Not to mention, I was the closest
ever to a lady giraffe.
“I want to help!!,” she suddenly burst forth with her given
nasal proficiency and promptly ordered me to open my
hand so that she could then make a donation. “Don’t look!!,”
she further ordered me as I then turned my head away
with my open hand and arm now stretched out toward her.
She fumbled abit as she tried to put in my hand whatever
donation she wanted to give me. Finally, she took my
fingers and closed them together after she’d done what
she thought was her good deed of the day. I then looked
at her and she was beaming at me like a royal giraffe on
her day off from the zoo. “I do hope it will help … it’s just
a little help for you. As you know, my heart goes out for
aaaaaalllllllll the homeless. Poooooor devils, aren’t they?
So God Bless and perhaps I will see you next time when
you’re no looooooooger in such a plight … Goooooooood
bye! Bye … bye …” And so off she went with her head up
so high it would have made any other humble giraffe
feel entirely too short and too shy.

After she’d gone, I slowly opened my hand with great

expectations! I then looked at what I had in the palm of my

hand and guess what I got? AN OLD DENTED PENNY!!!

That’s what I got, one old and dented penny! I didn’t quite

know whether I should simply laugh or cry or go bonkers …

Whatever, I choked slightly and chuckled alot to myself at

the thought of what I thought I was going to get from the

high class lady … Her rhetoric was now my sore reality. One
lousy penny, yet I still chuckled at what had transpired so
comically at my Big Issue pitch. I vowed then that if I ever
saw the said lady again, I would stop her and say: “Excuse
me, my dear! My heart goes out for you, too! So please
accept my heartfelt gift to you of TWO OLD DENTED

PENNIES …” And, that would be the end of that!

A few hours later, however, a youngish bloke came from

out of the blue and stopped at my pitch and asked me:

"Are you Monty?” I said, yes! I have a question for you:

“Do you collect pennies?” Pennnnnies? “Yes, pennnnnnies.”

I was still choking and chuckling on the thought of that old
dented penny in my hand. So I hesitated and said something
to the bloke that I really wasn’t sure if to answer yes or no

to his question. Nor was I sure if it was a big joke or not be-

ing pulled on me. “Make up your mind, Monty. You either
collect pennies or you don’t,” he remonstrated to me as

he started to walk away, impatiently … “Yes, I do. I do!

After all, most millionaires started off with pennies …
didn’t they?” And, he approved of my sudden declaration.
“I’ll be back when I can this afternoon,” stated the never
before seen burly bloke. I thought then that was

the end of him, too.

But, I was in for one hell of a surprise … There he was

again, an hour or so later, crossing the street towards me

with a large and heavy bag of guess what? PENNIES!!! Yes,

PENNIES!! And, lots of them!! Along with other coins inside

the double plastic carrier bag of 5’s, 10’s, and 20’s. The bag

weighed like a figure of obesity much like the rough but an-

gelic bloke who gave me the bag of hundreds of pennies,

some new, some old, and even some dented!! I then soon

christened the day as “My Little Penny Day.” And, nothing

less … So from the lady giraffe to the burly bag man I’d

gone all within a few odd hours that bordered now on

some kind of script from a sloppy daytime soap opera.

It was all so unreal.

When folkz later stopped by at my pitch to visit, I asked

them to pick-up the bag and take a good guess of how much

money was inside. From Janis Vella, I got an estimate of 25

quid. From Alex Parish, I got 32 quid. From Mark Errington,

I got 18 quid. From David Greener he thought the bag con-

tained about 45 quid. From Dawn Young, I got an estimate

of 30 pounds. While Samantha Whitmore was convinced

the bag weighed heavy enough to be 65 quid in change.
But nobody came near to the actual amount, although
Samantha was the closest but still way off. I carefully took
the bag on the Bendy and was worried the double plastic

bag might split open due to its weight. So before I left my

pitch for the day, I got Lisa and Phil, I think, to give me an

extra plastic bag to ensure it wouldn’t split open and all the

change go scattering all over the Bendy. I could imagine what
would have happened with the bus passengers all scrambling
to pick-up all the change. I was very worried, too, that some
folkz might think it was a bomb on the Bendy with the ungain-
ly shape of the bag and looking so odd and heavy with only

dayz after we’d endured the fatal 21/7 horror in London. I

also didn’t want to become the next Charles de Menezes …

with armed British anti-terror cops ready to

blow my brains out!!!

Finally at the end of the day, I got to count all the pennies

and all the other change in the bag at my sheltered home of

what I call “my-hole-in-the-wall.” At final count, I got exactly

NINTY-TWO POUNDS and NINTY-TWO PENCE in

change!! Woooooooooooooow. No wonder I still

remember and relish “My Little Penny Day.”

~~~
Perhaps I should now offer at least three old dented pennies

instead of two to that talking lady giraffe … for my heart goes

out to all such looming ladies… And, moreover, to the money

bag bloke please remember no matter how heavy the bag I’m

more than happy to collect pennies no matter how many from

1 to 100,001. My Big Issue pitch can always handle an extra

penny or two … most gratefully and most graciously …

So ta-ta for now, everybody … And oh! “My heart goes out

for all the poor hoooooomeless,” remember that’s what

she said!! Thankz for that old dented penny. But you know

what? I think you brought me gooooooooooood luck. I

still have that old dented penny somewhere under lock and

key to be sure my luck doesn’t run out on the streets …

But above all, I still thank my Good Anglican Lord for

“My Little Penny Day.” He always works in the

mysterious way, doesn’t He? Bravo!! Bravo!!!

My above story "My Little Penny Day"

first appeared in The Vendors View,

January 1-31, 2oo8. Vol. 1, No. 6.