2005-01-14 - 11:03 a.m.

I tried to pass a forgery this morning. I knew I shouldn�t have eaten that fake Picasso last night.

Bu-dum-TISH.

No, but seriously, I was in the queue at the supermarket, my one concession to health in one hand in the form of a strawberry and banana smoothie, the correct money in the other, sweaty with the anticipation of a successful financial transaction. It�s a crisp, sunny, Friday morning, the whiff of weekend already in the air, the Rushmore soundtrack in my ears and a pre-emptively accurate amount of coinage in my palm.

I�m stood behind the usual line, made up of office drones like me, each clutching things like big bottles of fizzy water (big night last night), cans of cola and sausage rolls (really big night last night), boxes of cereal (annoying people who have full breakfast at their desk) and sides of beef (weird people who prepare full roast dinners in the office kitchen).

Now. I usually take off my headphones as I approach the cashier. It�s only polite, and my little way of connecting. To me, this exudes a fraternal message, something like: �Hey, I may not be scanning tins of baked beans for a living, but we�re all slaving for the man, brother. Here�s a token of solidarity.� What they probably think is: �What is this twonk up to? Why is he taking off his headphones? Does he want to talk to me? Why would he want to talk to me? Is he a spy from head office? Maybe he�s going to sack me! I can�t take it! I must immediately take my own life by ingesting this packet of washing powder tablets! AAARRRRRRGGGGHHHHH!!!�

Or something.

Anyway. For no reason, today I kept them on.

Hand over goods? Check. Patronising nod to employee? Check. Bottle goes through scanner and expected price comes up on screen? Check. Smugly hand over correct change, abreath of fresh air among all the rest with their high value notes? Check.

Only now he�s mouthing something.

I�ve had this cashier a few times before. He is that weird breed of shop assistant who takes their job incredibly seriously. He has long, thinning black hair in a pony tail, and looks like he listens to Nine Inch Nails and plays Dungeons and Dragons. Glasses. Teeth. I once paid for my goods with a credit card with a slight crack in it and he gave me the full run down on the manifold dangers of identity theft and microchip-purloining scam merchants.

Anyway. Slowly, off come the headphones� �oh here comes my baby, here she comes noEXCUSE ME SIR BUT THIS IS A FAKE POUND COIN. UNDER COMPANY POLICY I AM NOT ALLOWED TO ACCEPT THIS AS LEGAL TENDER.�

OK, thanks for the discretion there, goth till boy! My Friday mellow is being slightly harshed by the rest of the queue thinking I�m laundering money, but let�s sort this out: �Oh, sorry. Someone must have given it to me in change. Let me give you my card.�

Him (holding up both coins and shouting still): �YOU SEE, SIR, IT�S VERY HARD TO FORGE COINS, MUCH HARDER THAN NOTES AS IT HAPPENS. THE SIDES AREN�T THE PROBLEM, IT�S CASTING THE GROOVES INTO THE EDGES PROVES DIFFICULT FOR MOST FORGERS.�

All I can think is, I�m not most forgers, I�m not even a minority of forgers and well, you seem to know a disturbing amount about it, but even as he goes up some other riveting avenue of coinage discussion, the headphones are going back on and: �I SHOULD REALLY REPORT THIS BUTit comes as no surprise to me, with some other guy, oh here comes my baby��

I�m paying by plastic from now on.

(The word �coinage� now always makes me think of:

Packing a Musket, by Jerri Blank.

�When you work from your home, and johns call on the phone, you're a call girl. When you walk 'til you limp, and give a cut to a pimp, you're a street whore. When they're beggin ya please, to get down on your knees, near their groinage�scusa me, but ya see, don't ya touch, where they pee, without coinage.�)