So here's the thing. Every day over the last week or so I've found money. Cash. Coins, pence, cents. On the steps of the butchers, next to the Pay and Display machine, the petrol station forecourt, my winter coat pocket; a fiver in there. And last Friday a battered wallet outside the Post Office, containing £75. (Belonging to Mr H Smith - it's with Julie of the granite hair, behind the counter, if you're still looking for it H). It's something I'm ridiculously superstitious about. I have ...
