Sixpences, farthings, half-crowns, ten bob notes, and what to do with old tins

I inherited a collection of old biscuit, toffee and chocolate tins from Mum and Dad back in 2009, some of which must have been pretty old, dating from the 1990s and before. 

Mum used a couple to put her sewing stuff in, and I have retained them and use them exactly as she did. She used others to put her cake-icing equipment in, but I don't share her fascination with that kind of thing, and have cleared it all out to make space in my kitchen cupboards for items such as my set of woks.

These tins were once commonplace items in every home, and were added to each year at Christmastime. I suspect every home had an assorted collection just like Mum and Dad's, used for storing everything from cotton reels to old nails. These tins were generally very attractive, especially Chinese-themed tins for loose tea, which I remember were around when I was a child. Gradually, however, one became awash with them, and the least useful of them tended to get thrown out, particularly when it was time to refurbish the kitchen, or move house, as Mum and Dad did several times over the decades.

So the residue left in my hall cupboard wasn't large. Even so, I wanted to thin it out, to create more room for storing additional tins of baked beans, plum tomatoes and sardines. I'm not (yet) a serious Prepper, but there was no harm in putting together at least a few extra items for emergency use. Coincidentally, I'd seen biscuit tins on sale in Waitrose in the form of a sixpence, and had on impulse bought two of them, one for myself and one for my friend Valerie. Here they are.

That's a pretty good replica of a sixpence from 1960, though huge compared to the small coin itself.

I don't know who glances at my blog. I imagine it appeals only to oldies like me, but I may be quite wrong. So some readers may be too young to recall the switch in February 1971 from the old coinage to decimal coinage. Pre-1971, the pound was divided into twenty shillings. Each shilling was divided into twelve pennies. Each penny was divided into two halfpennies, and before 1960 - I can just about remember it - each penny was also divided into four farthings. I loved all those little coins. But I didn't collect them because they had some value back in the 1950s and early 1960s, and a child whose pocket money was only a shilling a week couldn't afford to set up a coin collection! 

But by 1968, when the first of the new decimal coins was announced - the 10p piece, equivalent to the old florin, the two-shilling coin that was worth one-tenth of a pound - I could begin to amass a coin collection from the money that came into my hands. As I'm sure many did. I still have it, preserved in proper albums that I invested in. And in 2020, during Covid, I photographed that collection as one of the projects I invented to pass the time, as we were all housebound during the lockdowns.

Pre-1971, it was always fascinating to examine what was in one's purse. There would be shiny, freshly-minted coins of course, but many would be decades old, some even from Victorian times, although those would be very worn. The basic designs remained the same for a long time, but there would be gradual changes. The monarch's head on the other side of the coin would alter, for instance. And there would be some rarities to look out for, such as the pennies made not at the Royal Mint but at Heaton or King's Norton. There was a sporting chance of finding one or two of those - thrilling for a youngster. Naturally, very worn coins - however interesting - weren't worth more than face value, but value wasn't the point. One wanted a representative array of British coins, as complete as possible, in the best condition possible, and properly displayed in albums. It wasn't for sale. It was for keeping, like having a personal slice of history. And in 2026, fifty-five years on from 1971, I am so glad that I bothered. 

So here's a rundown of what the old coinage was like. My own photographs. Taken, incidentally, with my cherished little Leica D-Lux 4, still going strong. 

First, the little bronze farthing. 960 of them in one pound. My favourite coin, with the little wren on the front. I think I used one in earnest only once, in 1958 I think, when I was six. By then it wasn't worth anything on its own, but a halfpenny plus a farthing could still buy some sweets.

Next the bronze halfpenny (pronounced 'hay-penny'). 480 of them in one pound. 24 of them to a shilling. Latterly it featured Sir Francis Drake's ship, the Golden Hind.

Next, the bronze penny. 240 of them in one pound. 12 of them to a shilling. This always had a seated Britannia on the front, imperiously and confidently ruling the waves, and no doubt stooping to conquer, something we don't seem to do nowadays. Sometimes there would be a lighthouse in the scene. Very occasionally, an 'H' (for Heaton) or a 'KN' (for King's Norton) next to the date at the bottom.

Old pennies were often well worn, but still usable as currency because they were unmistakable. They were big coins and you couldn't possibly confuse them with anything else.

Now the threepence, pronounced 'thruppence' and generally called the 'thruppenny bit', at least in my time. 80 of them in one pound. Four of them to a shilling. Originally this was a small silver coin, rather like a sixpence. Here is one.  

But then it underwent a complete design change, becoming a multi-sided yellowish coin, very distinctive indeed, and another favourite of mine. It featured an attractive clump of flowers at first, but latterly a portcullis.

Next up, the silver sixpence, also known as a 'tanner', the coin copied for that Waitrose tin I bought (you see, I am keeping up a tenuous connection with the opening paragraphs of this post). 40 of them in one pound. Two in every shilling. This was the coin people tended to save up in large jars, partly because a lot of sixpences looked good that way. It was a cute little coin, oddly small for its value. When I was a child, in the infants anyway, you could stuff yourself silly with sixpence to spend. Not that I got as much for pocket money at first. But then ten shillings - 20 sixpences - bought a week's groceries in the 1950s. 

Note that I haven't yet mentioned fourpenny coins. 60 of those in one pound. These disappeared a very long time ago, except those coined for Maundy Money - special coins given to selected oldies by the monarch, on Maundy Thursday I believe. Fourpenny coins were once called 'groats'. I've an idea the old-fashioned phrase 'I'll give you a fourpenny one', i.e. 'punch you on the jaw', had some connection with this coin. Or possibly not. 

There were two sixpences in one silver shilling, the next coin. Also known as a 'bob'. There were 20 shillings in one pound. In its day this was big money for a kid. A visiting uncle or aunt was most likely to give a youngster like me sixpence as a present, and not usually a shilling. (These were the days when visiting relations commonly gave children small amounts of money to spend on sweets or funfair rides, and we lived in Barry then, with exotic Barry Island visible from our house, rather a longish walk there and back, but only a short train or bus ride away) One shilling was my standard pocket money until I was ten. There were two kinds of shilling: English and Scottish. 

The silver two-shilling coin, or 'florin', was actually rather an oddity, as it didn't fit neatly into the historic pounds/shillings/pence scheme that had obtained since at least mediaeval times. It was a more recent invention. There were ten in one pound, and so when decimalisation came in 1971 it could be used alongside the new 10p coin. They were completely interchangeable. In the heyday of coin-operated machines, such as cigarette machines in pubs, this saved a lot of expensive conversion work. 

The silver half-crown, of which there were eight in the pound, was also an oddity because the crown was never in circulation as an everyday coin. There were four half-crowns in a pound. It was in practice the largest coin one ever used. It could buy a lot of small items, and for much of its life was a princely amount of pocket money. I liked it. It was a large coin. I used to hear that it was the standard coin put into church collections, and that after decimalisation, when the half-crown was withdrawn and 10p became its substitute, there was consternation in the Church of England because church collections had shrunk by 20 per cent.  

The huge and heavy silver crown was never in one's purse. I think it was legal tender, but nobody used it as such. There were four in one pound. It was issued on special occasions as a commemorative coin, in some kind of box. Here are some that came my way as presents.

Even in 1971, it wasn't feasible to put together a large collection of current banknotes. They were just worth too much. But I managed to preserve an old ten-shilling note, or ten-bob note. Two of them in every pound. If you have a copy of The Beatles' Abbey Road LP (or album), you may recall that in the track Mean Mr Mustard, the old gentleman (described at one point as a 'dirty old man') 'keeps a ten-bob note up his nose'. Well, this is what he was stuffing up there. 

Pushing the boat out, and denying myself important money for clothes and shoes, I saved some pound notes too. The old pound note had a long run, but was replaced by a smaller version in 1978, and by a coin a long time ago. Here are the regular and economy versions of the former note. 

I still regret the disappearance of the old coins. They had character. They were a link with history. Granted, the arithmetic needed to work with them was awkward. From that point of view, I was relieved when we went decimal. But looking back, we lost something important. Something cultural. It was one of those social glues. When Tommy Steele sang about 'Half a sixpence' you knew what he meant. 

But it would all have passed into oblivion in any event. Inflation would have done for all the old coins in the long run. In 2026, if we still had the old coinage, even the half-crown (12.5p in decimal terms) would buy nothing on its own. I suppose the old ten bob note (50p) would remain useful for very small items. Only the pound note would still have some worth.

The old money hasn't entirely gone. I was astonished to discover that certain things are still priced in 'guineas', which was £1 1s 0d - twenty-one shillings. It's a thing done with costly things sold at a premium - such as selling a racehorse, or the winnings if it wins a race. Or something you might buy at an exclusive gallery or auction house. I suppose a guinea is still a legally recognised amount of money, and not just a faintly snobbish gimmick. 

I still have the government's pamphlet that explains the coming of decimalisation and the changes that it would bring.

Look at the illustrative prices! (Click on the pictures to see them better) And consider the societal changes since.

You could buy a mint set of the first coins. I did.

There was an outcry that as one 'new penny' was worth 2.4 times one 'old penny', all prices would be rounded up to the detriment of those on small budgets. So they minted the 'new half penny'. It was soon worthless, as unprecedented inflation bit deep during the 1970s. I took to saving those half-pence pieces for future use as counters for card games. I still have them!

Of all the new decimal coins, the half new penny was the one I liked most. It wasn't truly decimal. It was an improvisation, doomed to quick obsolescence, but meanwhile as odd and quirky as the old half-crown. All power to it. It disrupted the neat, carefully worked-out system, and added some individuality to the new, rather uninspiring coinage. No wonder I retain a soft spot for it.

Another thing that didn't go the way the government envisaged was how we referred to the 'new penny'. Nobody used that phrase. Nobody referred to 'new pence'. Its symbol was 'p'. So it quickly became known as the 'pee'. You'd talk about 'one pee' or 'eleven and a half pee' or 'thirty-three pee' or 'two pounds and fifty pee' - or just 'two pound fifty'. I imagine this was all unexpected and eyebrow-raising to stuffy people on expert committees, who'd had high hopes for the new coinage.  

After 'D-Day' my temporary interest in coins quickly waned, and now I don't care much. Indeed, I hardly ever use coins. Or even banknotes. But I'm still pleased that I have a good, though non-valuable, collection of old coins and banknotes. However, I haven't added to it. I'm not a serious collector.

After a massive excursion into numismatics, let's get back to tins!

So I had two 'sixpence' tins. They both contained yummy shortbread biscuits. As intended, I gave one tin to Valerie as a present, plus the contents of my own tin. I already knew what I wanted to do with my own (now empty) tin. I was going to use it as a household ornament. Where could I put it? I decided to fix it to a wall in my lounge. It would enhance a set of framed pictures near the lounge door. But there would have to be anther tin, to balance the effect. So I chose a heart-shaped Roses chocolates tin. 

This was the lounge wall before I commenced. 

Note the Black & Decker drill bottom left: this was a hard brick supporting wall, and a powerful drill fitted with a masonry bit was needed. Unlike Dad, I'm no do-it-yourself-er, but I can manage to drill a hole, tap in a rawlplug, and insert a screw to hang a picture on. Only this time I'd be hanging a tin. I first punched a hole in the back of each tin, and enlarged it to a suitable diameter.

Then it was drill, baby, drill. Careful measurements and positioning paid off. The back of each tin went on the wall exactly as I'd hoped. Then I pushed on the lid of each tin.

As you can see, it was one of those after-breakfast jobs that stretched on into the morning, so that I was still in my night attire as lunchtime approached. I took my time. There was no reason to rush and mess things up. 

The 'sixpence' tin looked really good.

But I was particularly pleased about the heart-shaped Roses chocolates tin. 

Mum had liked these tins: they were very much associated with her. In a way, that tin was now a little object of commemoration for Mum. Dad had his framed Jubilee Medal in the hall; this was Mum's medal.

Afterwards I wondered where I'd got the idea for sticking these tins on the lounge wall, with plans to do the same for other tins. I hadn't seen it done anywhere else - or at least I'd never noticed it done. But surely it wasn't an original idea. It doesn't matter. It's still, in my view, an interesting way to use old tins that would otherwise stay in a cupboard or just get junked.

They want me to burn

I'm one of those people who use euphemisms only jocularly, and not in place of a plain word that ought to be said. So I don't refer to people 'passing', meaning dying. Or that they 'passed away' peacefully at three in the morning. No, they died. It's not a taboo word. And it states what happened: they lost consciousness, and that was their end. It's not disrespectful, nor unbearably blunt. 

So I say 'my brother Wayne died in a car accident just before Christmas 1995'. He had a violent end. I don't flinch from it. 

And I say 'my Mum had terminal cancer but died of a stroke in February 2009'. That's how it was. 

And I say 'my Dad missed Mum terribly, and died not long after in May 2009 of a cardiac arrest'. He died on his feet. He died at the tail end of an evening at home, in warmth and comfort. I knew his habits. He'd had a good fry-up for his evening meal, then a relaxing shower. Then he had sat in the green armchair that I'm sitting in, clad in his dressing gown and pyjamas, with a towel around his neck. He had enjoyed reading a chapter of his cowboy book, and a tot of his favourite whisky. Then he had braced himself to get out of the armchair, but the strain of heaving himself to his feet on arthritic ankles was too much for his heart, and he had time only to punch the red button on the emergency gadget around his neck, which summoned the paramedics. Then he had slumped to the carpet and died. 

I wasn't there. I was in the Cottage, half an hour away in Piddinghoe. I was up late, and at 1.00am could respond to a knock on my front door, only to find two glum-faced policemen, who broke the news to me at second-hand. But next morning, viewing the scene, I could read it like a book and reconstruct how Dad's last moments must have unfolded. 

I had to deal with the coroner of course. A sudden death at home when apparently alone. But fortunately Dad didn't have to be kept refrigerated for too long. 

I caught up with him next at the funeral parlour, and in fact had more than ample time with his corpse. While I was alone with him in the narrow back room, a distraught man who had lost his wife came in and broke down. I felt it was impossible to emerge and thank the lady in charge while that man was in the full flood of his grief. In fact I had to stay with Dad for a long forty minutes. Believe me, I had plenty of time to contemplate death close up. Tidied-up death, anyway. I sort of came to terms with it. As to some extent I had done already with Mum, at the same funeral parlour, but for a much shorter time. Sitting next to one's dead parents isn't the happiest thing you can do. But it gave me time for a quiet and unhurried private farewell. Typical of 2009. A testing year for me, a year full of extraordinary events and changes, some of them challenging, many of them ongoing. Becoming an orphan was just one of several unique experiences. But then, we all become orphans at some point. 

At least I gained some insight into the many effects of a death. I now had to live without any safety net: it had entirely gone. I had to be completely self-responsible. On the other hand, I gained complete control over what I could do. I may not have become the world's finest citizen since then, but I have grown hugely in self-confidence, and surely I've jettisoned a boatload of humbug, false modesty and fear. In any case, I'm an optimist, which goes a long way.

So death can be transformational for those left behind. It improved me. And it doesn't faze me. I am genuinely sorry to hear about anyone dying, but it has to come sometime. And while there is no such thing as a 'good death', or a death that anyone can (in normal circumstances) look forward to, there does seem to be a 'right time' for dying. Various people say so. And it seems reasonable to me. 

So one shouldn't fret if, after a long and engaging life in good health, the body signals that it's time to quit. Hopefully there will be enough warning to get one's affairs in order, and possibly say goodbye to all who deserve a fond adieu. And then (hopefully) one will drift away into oblivion while in bed, or reclined in a comfortable chair one sunny afternoon. Perhaps thinking of someone, or a place that meant a lot. Or an idea. Or just a phrase that someone once said, that bubbles up from nowhere. A single word, perhaps, that harkens back to childhood. (Though probably not 'Rosebud')

I don't believe in souls and an afterlife. I think I will be utterly gone, and won't have the consciousness to know, or care, what happens to me. Putting that another way, I won't 'pass' from one existence to another. I'll be alive one moment, then dead the next, and that will be the end of the story. Soon t'worms will come and eat me up, but I won't know about it.

What I do believe is that even at seventy-four my death is still a long way off. I feel I have a stake in the next twenty or thirty years. I am planning for that. I'm very keen to see what happens. And if I end up as a gun-toting scavenger amid the silent ruins of once-thriving cities, with nobody to speak to, and emboldened feral creatures to beware of, then so be it. Although I think the future will be better than that, and well worth the care and effort of staying alive.

So I don't like receiving stuff through my front door about funeral plans. I haven't asked. It's annoying, and feels almost insulting. 

One funeral plan offer came yesterday, from an outfit called Pure Cremation, who claim to be a 'Best Funeral Plan Provider', and the receiver of a Personal Finance Award. The envelope was making an offer that ended on 27th November, just over three weeks ahead. It said: 'Free inside - your guide to the perfect send-off'. And 'BIGGEST-EVER SAVING'. And 'GET £150 OFF'. With a footnote at the bottom of the envelope, 'Plus, news about the nation's favourite funeral plan'. On the back of the envelope, '4.9 out of 5' in reviews. And naturally a Trustpilot score of '4.8 out of 5'. And another footnote: 'Britain's more affordable, most trusted funeral plan'. All of this to entice the elderly 'Ms Lucy Melford' (as they called me: I hate being called 'Ms'; it's 'Miss') to open the envelope carefully and study the contents. I ripped it in half and binned it.

But today, fired up to blog about this, I retrieved it temporarily from the bin to see what I would have read.

The general tone was OK. It just felt very premature, and inappropriate when I'm still an active person with a love of life, and plenty left to do. How dare they assume that I am on my way out! How dare they sell cremation like a mobility scooter, or a leather sofa, or some kind of investment. But of course they are not the only guilty ones. 

As to the offer, it certainly was 'pure cremation', done on an 'unattended funeral' basis. No hearse or flowers. No ceremony. No celebrant. No choice of crematorium. My corpse would be collected, and taken in a wooden coffin to whatever crematorium the firm used, then cremated. The ashes would be hand-returned to any mainland address in England, Wales and Scotland. All for a single payment of £2,045. 

I could pay in instalments, such as 24 months at £99.99 per month = £2,399.76. Or if that would be too much of a drain on my possibly meagre income, I could pay only £29.99 a month for 120 months = £3,598.80. 

I suppose these figures are competitive, but I'm not taking the bait. I don't regard arranging my funeral as my personal problem. I'll leave enough easy-access money for my executrix to buy an off-the-shelf humanist affair. As a memorial, I would like a plaque on a bench somewhere, perhaps under the tree in the square at Kentisbeare in Devon (Dad was born in Kentisbeare in 1920), or (ideally, in my dreams) among the long line of benches that overlook Padstow and the River Camel in Cornwall. But that's all.

I don't want any more of these funeral offers. I want to live, not die. I'm not hiding from eventual death, but there's no need to make hard and fast plans for a great send-off so far in advance. And it could be money down the drain. I mean, will my estate get a refund if there's nothing to cremate, as might be the case if I'm lost at sea while cruising, or vaporised by an invading alien's ray-gun? Well, who knows what's around the bend...

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Mike Hailwood and Nick Drake

Last September I took my caravan to the Midlands, staying for nine nights at the Caravan Club's site at Wythall, south of Birmingham. It was at the north end of what you might call 'Shakespeare Country', centred of course on Stratford-upon-Avon. 

There's a railway line that links Birmingham Moor Street station (which I visited on a day trip into Birmingham city centre: well worth seeing) and Stratford. It runs past Wythall into gently rolling countryside, not especially scenic but very pleasant nevertheless. Naturally it's called the Shakespeare Line. There's a succession of country stations, chief of which is Henley-in-Arden station, but before you get so far south there's a station at Danzey. Like all the rest, it's 'Shakespeare themed'. In fact each station is devoted to one of the bard's plays. Danzey champions Hamlet.  And if you look closely, there will be two boards at each station, one to tell you about interesting local sights, the other carrying a poem and a prose passage connected with the Line or the countryside it passes through. 

This is what Danzey station looks like. The grey Volvo is Sophie, my car.

This is commuter country. I visited several stations on this line, and they were mostly deserted. Only Henley was different. Of course, they would be packed with commuters early morning and late afternoon. 

These were the two boards I mentioned. The poem and prose one first.

Click on the above shot to see it more clearly. I really like both the poem and the text alongside. So might you.

The other board now.

The chap on the motorbike is - was - Mike Hailwood, a very famous name in twentieth century bike racing history. A world-class champion, with part of the Isle of Man TT course named after him (Hailwood's Height, near the summit of Snaefell). 'Mike the Bike', a superstar of his time. Even I had heard of him. He died in 1981, aged not quite forty. A musician called Nick Drake was also mentioned, unknown to me, but apparently revered in the music world. He had died a few years earlier in 1974, aged twenty-six. Both lived in the village of Tanworth-in-Arden. Both died tragically, and both are buried in the churchyard there. 

I'd just come from Tanworth, having enjoyed lunch at the village pub, The Bell. I decided to return to Tanworth later in my Midlands holiday and seek out these graves. And so a few days later, I treated myself to another lunch at The Bell, then explored the churchyard. I was mainly interested in finding Mike Hailwood's grave. It was harder than I thought. I looked at all the gravestones that seemed likely contenders, but no joy. I looked again. Still no luck. 

I noticed an couple of about my age examining a grave under a tree, and approached them. Had they found Mike Hailwood's grave? No, they were there to see Nick Drake's. The young man had killed himself while depressed, even though he was already becoming well-known and well-regarded. It had been very much a local tragedy, and the family were sensitive about respecting his memory. There was a notice about that on the large tree in the shot below.

We chatted. They remembered Mike Hailwood, and knew that every year bikers gathered in the churchyard to pay their respects. But they didn't know where in the churchyard he was buried. I said I'd persevere. Meanwhile they were going to look around the church itself. As I would, once I'd located Mike's grave.

It must be there. Why hadn't I seen it? Then it occurred to me to do a Google image search on 'Mike Hailwood's grave'. This instantly revealed a picture of it, and I then realised that the gravestone wasn't just for Mike, but someone else too. A double gravestone, where I'd been looking for one with only his name on it.

I soon spotted it now, down the slope from where Nick Drake was buried.

Michelle, the girl he was buried with, was his young daughter, who died in the same accident. His young son survived. They had nipped out for fish and chips. They were killed when a lorry made a foolish and unexpected turn. Mike had actually retired from racing by then, and was now a partner in a bike business. Astonishing how such a skilled rider and driver could fall victim to an accident on an ordinary road, rather than out on the track. 

Well, for me it was mission accomplished. I found the couple inside the church and told them that I'd found Mike's grave, and described where it was. I'm sure they made the effort to find it too. 

There is no knowing how long each of us will live. Good health, money and a worry-free background might set the scene for a long and happy life, but a sudden bolt from the blue can end it all in a moment.

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