Copyright smh
Recently I discovered $1.25 billion lying around in a drawer in the table in the hall. Form an orderly queue, cat burglars and romance scammers, but before you stake your professional reputations on this, the heist of the century, I’d urge you to heed this warning. The funds are all tied up in forgotten gift cards, a form of cryptic currency so impenetrable that it makes cryptocurrency look like child’s play. Despite all outward appearances, they have a street value of nothing, because most have been languishing there for so long that the -serial numbers have rubbed off and can only be read by dismantling the drawer itself and taking the bottom panel (and a magnifying glass) along to the shops. In any case, I’ve already done that and – -surprise! – the gift cards were still rejected at the till. There are myriad reasons for this. The machines didn’t like them. Perhaps they were scratched. The codes were entered incorrectly. They must have expired. Are you sure there was credit on them in the first place? Gift cards are the official currency of hell. I refer here, in particular, to those ones available at major supermarkets and redeemable at a dizzying number of retailers. Let’s examine their value proposition, shall we? For the time-poor, inspiration-lacking buyer of said cards, it’s basically all upside from the minute the issue of price is resolved. Giving them requires zero mental effort. They don’t need wrapping. They may not have the same aesthetic appeal as a vintage necklace, but if there’s a retailer on the list prepared to flog you one, it’s as good as gifted anyway. And the cards offer a smorgasbord of options. Want to redeem your 30 bucks at Supercheap Auto? Hooray, the cards are good there! Officeworks? There, too! Some sort of heinous kids’ entertainment venue? It accepts them as well! The problems start when the difficult-to-buy-for recipient pops the gift card into a drawer and forgets about it for approximately two years, 11 months and 29 days. When it is finally exhumed from whichever existential grave it’s found itself interred, its owner has roughly eight business hours to develop an -urgent need for a new set of whatever-the-card-is-good-for before its balance disappears in a puff of expiry-date smoke. So our thrifty recipient (let’s call her me) does one of two things: she either logs on to her preferred store’s website or, perhaps seeking a more drawn-out punishment, takes herself and it off to her nearest shopping centre.
