The World According to Bob

I recognised the large, slightly scruffy, blond-haired figure at the centre of the group immediately. It was the Mayor of London, Boris Johnson. He was with a young boy, his son I assumed, and a small group of smartly-dressed assistants. They were marching straight towards my exit.

I didn’t really have time to think so I just reacted instinctively as he approached me.

‘How about a Big Issue, Boris?’ I said, waving a magazine in the air.

‘I’m in a bit of a rush,’ he said, looking flustered. ‘Hold on.’

To his credit he started digging around in his pockets and produced a pile of coins which he then proceeded to drop into my hands.

‘There you go. More valuable than British pounds,’ he said.

I didn’t understand what he meant but was grateful nevertheless.

‘Thanks very much indeed for supporting Bob and me,’ I said, handing him a magazine.

As he took it, he smiled and tilted his head slightly at Bob.

‘That’s a nice cat you’ve got there,’ he said.

‘Oh yes, he’s a star, he’s even got his own travelcard so he can travel around,’ I said.

‘Amazing. Really,’ he said, before heading off in the direction of Islington Green with his entourage.

‘Good luck, Boris,’ I said as he disappeared from view.

I hadn’t wanted to be rude and check what he’d given me a moment or two earlier, but, judging by the weight and number of the coins, it felt way more than the cover price of the magazine.

‘That was generous of him wasn’t it, Bob?’ I said, fishing around for the coins which I’d hurriedly stuffed in my jacket pocket.

As I looked at the small pile of cash, however, my heart sank. The coins all bore the mark Confoederatio Helvetica.

‘Oh no, Bob,’ I said. ‘He gave me bloody Swiss Francs.’

It was only then that the penny dropped, as it were.

‘That’s what he meant when he said more valuable than British pounds,’ I muttered to myself.

Except, of course, they weren’t more valuable.

It obviously hadn’t occurred to him that, while foreign bank notes can be exchanged at most banks and bureaux de change, coins cannot. They were, effectively, worthless. To me, at least.

One of our friends at the tube station, Davika, passed by a moment or two later.

‘Saw you with Boris, James,’ she smiled. ‘Did he see you all right?’

‘No he didn’t as a matter of fact,’ I said. ‘ He gave me a pile of Swiss Francs.’

She shook her head.

‘That’s the rich for you,’ she said. ‘They live on a different planet from the rest of us.’

I just nodded quietly in agreement. It wasn’t the first time something like this had happened to me.

A few years earlier, I’d been busking in Covent Garden. It had been approaching 7.30pm, curtain-up time at most of the theatres and opera houses in the area, and a lot of people were breaking into a panicky trot as they emerged from the tube station. Unsurprisingly, few of them had any time to notice me strumming away with Bob at my feet, but one particularly flustered looking character in a bow tie did acknowledge me.

He saw me from a few yards away and instantly dug into his pocket. He was a very grand looking character with a mane of grey hair. I could have sworn I recognised him from the television, but couldn’t place him. When I saw him reach into his trouser pocket and pull out a scrunched up note, I thought my luck was in. It was red and looked all the world like a big denomination, possibly a £50 note. That was the only note I knew that had red in it.

‘There you go, my man,’ he said, thrusting it into my hand as he slowed down for a brief moment.

‘Cheers. Thanks very much indeed,’ I said.

‘Have a good evening,’ he said, laughing as he picked up speed again and ran towards the Piazza.

I had no idea why he was laughing. I assumed he was in a good mood.

I waited a few minutes until the crowds had died down a little before recovering the scrunched up note out of my pocket.

It didn’t take me long to work out that it wasn’t a £50 note. As I’d thought, it was red, but it had a picture of a bearded bloke I’d never seen before on it. It had the number 100 written on it. The writing was in some kind of Eastern European language. The only word that looked familiar was Srbije. I had no idea what it was or what it might be worth. It might have been more than £50 for all I knew. So I packed up my stuff and headed for a Bureau de Change the other side of the Piazza which I knew was open late for tourists.

‘Hi, can you tell me what this is worth, please?’ I said to the girl who was behind the window.

She looked at it and gave me a puzzled look.

‘Don’t recognise it, hold on, let me check with someone else,’ she said.

She went into a back office where I could see an older bloke sitting.

After a short confab she came back.

‘Apparently it’s Serbian, it’s 100 Serbian dinar,’ she said.

‘OK,’ I said. ‘Can I exchange it?’

‘Let’s see what it’s worth,’ she said tapping away at a computer and then a calculator.

‘Hmmm,’ she said. ‘That comes out at just over 70p. So we wouldn’t be able to exchange it.’