I fear for mankind.
According to a survey on Britons (the meanest of the mean in my experience, tight wads if ever there were any – unless they can use their expenses account) only 20 % would bother to pick up a penny lying on the pavement. I am in knots. I love finding a penny. How much trouble can it be to bend over and pick it up? It makes my day. It signifies luck lurking in the bushes waiting to pounce on me. It’s god’s gift of hope.
My heart goes out to anyone or anything ‘lost’. Whilst I do not wish to open a sanctuary for the forlorn and abandoned (well, I do but, frankly, I don’t have the room) a penny so easily accommodated in my pocket. Safe. A new home. I have woven whole stories around pennies lost, Christmas trees left behind (24 Dec) never to find their destiny bedecked in someone’s living room. Enough to move my (then little) son to tears and tell me: “Stop it, Mama.” Yeah, well. I know. Realities of life are not a bouncy castle.
Morale of the story: Don’t be precious. And if – for physical reasons – you really can’t bend over there is always a passer-by you can ask nicely to pick it up for you. And let them keep it – for good luck. If nothing else it’s a conversation opener.