Deleted Notes & Queries response: How much does it cost to change the British monarch? (part two)

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I wrote two responses to this query, both very different. I don't know why. Boredom, perhaps.

~

How much does it cost to change the British monarch?

The minor bell-tower protruding like a chimney stack, from the south-eastern corner of the church of St Lidwina's, chimes the half-hour past noon. In response, the Royal Mint dutifully exhales a torrent of lunchtime workers through the embedded architecture of its main entrance – a former railway arch connecting to the bowed semi-ribs of the archways that once stood their ground on either side, before they were partially demolished and absorbed into the newer building. In that strange way in which the Capital will periodically reinvent itself, what was once a conduit for incoming and outgoing rail freight is now a pedestrianised gateway for the base coin of that wealth.

Many of the workers choose to settle, like a flock of London pigeons, on a nearby triangular road island with rounded corners. A few years ago it was reclaimed from the traffic, planted with low hedges in raised beds, and colonised by wooden memorial benches and litter bins. It is accessible via a pair of pedestrian crossings that temporarily stall the grumbling stream of vehicles that are now separated into one-way lanes on either side of the island. 'The Stays,' as it is known by the taxi drivers also has a numbered A-road designation that I cannot recall. It follows the line of an old Roman road. During the 1800s it became a railway running to and from the docklands a few miles to the east. At the end of the 1960s the tracks were torn up and the thoroughfare was restored to its previous purpose as an artery for vehicle and foot traffic.

By the side entrance of the Mint, the early spoils of the coin presses are already leaving on secure palettes: Rolls of one and two pence pieces on their way to banks, and thereafter destined to slip between the fingers of the general public into the drawers of cash registers, or to quietly tarnish as alluvial deposits in coin trays and jam jars.

A few of these newly minted coins – amounting to 30 pence in total (10 one penny pieces and and 10 two penny pieces) have been separated from the main batch and have found their way into the trouser pocket of Michael Gisborne. I pace alongside him as he follows the soft corner of Furnace Row before taking a hard left between the sabre-toothed Victorian bollards guarding a pedestrian-only side alleyway into Blacklock Mews. At the navy blue door of The Fleischer Society, he enacts a complicated secret knock that I assume is known to all members (it turns out to be one of Gisborne's eccentricities). The society is a 124 year old private club for the collectors of coins, stamps, and, lately, trading cards. This controversial new addition has been made in the interests of maintaining relevance, and preserving membership levels and financial solvency.

Gisborne deposits his virgin treasure on the worn, green leather inlay of the front desk, where he is thanked by the clerk on duty, who expresses a hope that he will see him again the following month.

“I always tell them the coins are on loan from the queen,” says Gisborne humourlessly, “because legally they are.”

~

Ask a random passer-by to identify the currency of the United Kingdom. Discounting any sarcastic response that you might receive, and the reticence of people who are reluctant to answer, suspecting that you are about to make a fool of them, the majority will tell you that it is the 'Pound.'

“It's a half truth,” explains Gisborne. “What you have is the people's currency which is bound up, in the physical sense, in five, ten, twenty, and fifty pence pieces; in one and two pound coins, and across a spectrum of banknotes.

“Then you have The Royal Fund which is tied up in the copper denominations – the one and two pence pieces. That's the Queen's money – an epiphyte currency held in a state of fluid suspension by her Royal subjects, which is all of us, whether we like it or not. It's supposed to fund Royal projects – weddings, coronations, that kind of thing. Legally speaking, if the Queen asked you to hand over all your copper coins, you would have to do it. Although this is a concept that dates to the late reign of King George, when people were more favourably inclined towards the Royal Family. I doubt a request like that would go down too well in the current climate.”

“So it's an archaic concept,” I say. “Like earning the right to graze your geese on Parliament Square. You wouldn't actually do it.”

Gisborne appears to ponder my question for a moment:

“I think if any withdrawals of this nature were to occur then they would take place at a bank level, rather than dipping a hand directly into the pocket of the man in the street. You think about it: There are around 10.5 billion, one pence coins in circulation and roughly 6.5 billion two pence pieces. That's a couple of hundred million and you're probably only going to need a very small percentage of that.”

“You could certainly buy a decent hat I would have thought, even at today's prices,” I say. “But what about all the small change that gets squirrelled away? I have one of my grandfather's sun-faded cigar tins filled to the brim with 1p coins. Am I breaking the law by keeping them out of circulation?”

“For heaven's sake man, give them to charity,” cries Gisborne. “What's wrong with you?”

“I would be worried if I was a charity; if the queen really does own all the copper coins.”

“Oh, I expect they're exempt,” says Gisborne. “You know, when I was a poor economics student, and heavily into Marxism, I would refuse to accept one or two pence pieces in my change on account of their Royal connection. Now look at me.”

We pass between the sentry bollards and are both temporarily blinded by the untarnished glare of the afternoon sun.

I hope this is of help.

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