Lightning does not strike twice
I found a fiver on the way to the pub last night. On the pavement, right in the middle of the pavement as it happens, practically standing on edge asking to be picked up. Fresh, perhaps fresh from the cashpoint at the crossroads of which the pub constitutes one quarter and the cashpoint another: straight but curved, straight up but curved along its length, as though it had been folded but not for long enough to be reconciled to it. I pocketed it: I looked around to see if anybody had dropped it and I even looked around for the cameras in case it was a stunt for television. But it was dark, and half-past ten. I doubt a fiver coud have been there since it was light.
Even in London, five pounds will buy you a couple of pints, which was as much as I had in mind. I walked to the bar, to order the first of these two, and as I did so I saw a pound coin on the floor. Unbelievable. This was my evening! That would pay for peanuts and crisps as well. I ordered my pint and slid my boot gently over the coin before dropping to the floor to pick it up under the guise of doing up my laces.
The coin had been glued to the floor.