Apparently, in a sweeping generalisation I read in the Guardian, boys are prone to collecting things. I am a boy. I have variously collected watches, shoes, and money in the past. Collections of foreign banknotes used to excite me – the Australian swim-proof plastic backed dollar, the indestructable Dutch Vim-proof snorting Guilder. It was not a true collection – for one thing, I never took trips to the Bureau de Change (and what is that French moniker doing in common usage anyway – do we travel around the globe running through doors marked ‘sortie’ when a fire alarm goes off? No, we look for that perfectly English word ‘exit’. Do we look for signs saying ‘cafe’ when we want to eat? Erm….). I never went to currency exchanges and asked for one from the top row, two from the second row, and two from the other rows and paid for them. Collection of foreign banknotes was done in the country from which they were issued. That was the fun of it. Now, I just collect English currency. I got so much of it, that I had to keep them with a bank so that I didn’t inadvertantly exchange them for pork pies and bacon sarnies. (Pork pies are hard to collect – every time you get to about four, you have to start eating them. Ooooh, the jelly.)
Now all I collect is strange items from bars. I don’t actively collect them, more like they find their way into pockets by the time I wake up. Shot glasses, and matchboxes (usually with bar names and adresses which are useful for retracing the previous night’s steps) are a favourite. I haven’t found a condom machine in my coat for a long time, which has got to be a good thing. I don’t think I really collect things any more, does this mean I’m not a boy?