There was pre-decimal pocket money and post-decimal pocket money.
Until I was 10, my world was set between the Lomond View flats where we lived, the High Park across the road, the woods at the back and the allotments where, every so often, we benignly nicked rhubarb. Pocket money was a three-penny bit thrown from our 6th floor veranda by my mother in response to the ice cream van’s chimes and the best of my young lungs’ capacity. Purchases ran the spectrum: ice poles; Lucky Bags; crisps; and, now and again, a bottle of ginger if there was more than one threepence in play.
When I was 10, my dad’s shipyard closed and we moved from Clydebank to Hamilton. A year later, the 12-sided three-penny bits disappeared and the 7-sided 50 pence coin became the currency and my weekly rate. Not quite quids in but it soon added up and I moved on from the confectionery to the more sophisticated delights of 7” singles, comics and fake jobbies from Tam Shepherds Magic Shop in Glasgow.