I was there buying coat hangers.

The total was £1.59, so I gave the cashier £2.09

She fiddled with the change and pushed back a penny, frowning.

“Did I give you too little?”

“No…it’s not that,” she said, “I just can’t take this penny. It’s…Canadian.”

Her emphasis on the word, ‘Canadian’ gave the impression that she was neither impressed by our easy-going charms, nor our prowess for winter sports.

I didn’t have another penny.

“But it looks the same!” I pleaded.

She shrugged indifferently.

“And you know,” I continued, undaunted, “the Canadian dollar is unusually strong these days.”

She shrugged again.

“Think of it as an investment,” I cajoled.

“Sorry,” she said, her tone indicating that she was anything but sorry. “Don’t you have a penny?”

The next customer in line rummaged helpfully in her pockets. “I have a penny for you.”

“Thanks,” I said, taking it, “And in return for your generous donation, you get this shiny, one-of-a-kind, Canadian penn–”

“–No thanks,” she said quickly.

I shrugged casually. Trying to hide my chagrin and disappointment.

I handed the penny to the cashier. Smirking.

“I’m really trying to infiltrate the British economy,” I whispered conspiratorially. “With Canadian pennies.”

She ignored me.

“Yep. One penny at a time.”

Nope. Nothing. Not even a smile.

She handed me 50 pence and my receipt.

“Thanks,” was all she said.

Tough crowd, these Brits. Really. Tough crowd.