Month: May 2025
Spot On: The Real Value of Florins
Among the many coins that stir interest from collectors across the globe, few Australian pieces carry as much historical and visual appeal as the 1927 and 1945 florins.
First up: a commemorative beauty. This 1927 florin was issued to mark the opening of Parliament House in Canberra, and it shows. Ornate scrollwork, twin sceptres, and an engraving of the building itself make it one of the most striking Commonwealth coins of its era. Two million were released into circulation, so most examples today are affordable and hover just above the silver spot price, unless they’re in pristine mint state. Only 400 proof versions were produced, and these command serious respect and around £4,000 at auction.
The second coin, dated 1945, shows King George VI on the obverse and the classic Australian arms reverse, complete with kangaroo, emu, and coat of arms. Minted in Melbourne, it’s a war-era issue still found in relatively good condition due to limited circulation. All Australian florins were struck in Melbourne except one rare outlier in 1854, minted in San Francisco for colonial trade.
It’s worth noting that many in the precious metals trade have moved away from calling these items “scrap” when discussing their melt value. The preferred term today is “spot”, acknowledging that while the metal forms the basis of value, the historical and collector interest often outweighs any thought of melting them down.
Medals for the Big Push
Not all medals were forged for battlefield valour. Some – like these elegant Queen Charlotte Maternity Hospital awards – honour service of a quieter kind: midwifery. Issued to staff before 1940, these medals are a tribute to those who brought life into the world during an era when childbirth was far more perilous than today.
Each features a classical bust of Queen Charlotte (1761–1818), consort to George III, and a stork on the reverse, proudly clutching a swaddled baby, alongside the words Awarded for Service. Measuring just under 20mm, they’re not miniatures, but nor was a larger version ever struck – this was the medal.
The black silk ribbon and pin back suggest they were meant to be worn, not just tucked away. One example here carries a curious date bar: 16th May 1935 – likely linked to King George V’s Silver Jubilee, though definitive records are elusive.
These medals were issued by Queen Charlotte’s Maternity Hospital in London, founded in 1752 and reputed to be the country’s oldest of its kind. It shut during the Blitz, but its legacy lives on through pieces like this – a quiet salute to the women who served behind the scenes, one birth at a time.
The Gordian Knot of Debasement
In an era when Roman fortunes were as uncertain as the purity of their coinage, the silver debased antoninianus from the reign of Emperor Gordian III (AD 238 to 244) offers a revealing snapshot of troubled times. Gordian’s distinctive radiate crown, a spiky emblem of power, denotes that this coin was worth two denarii, although numismatists might rightly wonder how much genuine silver remained beneath his imperial image.
On the reverse of this compelling antoninianus, a figure confidently holds a globe and spear, symbols meant to represent Rome’s global dominance, somewhat ironic given the empire’s instability at that time. Gordian III’s own rise was swift and brutal: elevated by the Praetorian Guard following the murders of the joint emperors Balbinus and Pupienus, he eventually met a similarly violent fate. Betrayed and killed by the Praetorians who had crowned him, Gordian’s reign ended abruptly in distant Mesopotamia.
Originally introduced by Emperor Caracalla in AD 215, the antoninianus began life as a silver coin slightly larger than a denarius and intended to be valued at double its worth. Yet over time, its silver content dwindled dramatically until it became predominantly bronze with just a hint of silver remaining. This debasement mirrors the fading fortunes of the empire itself during that tumultuous period.
The Final Stamps of the Third Reich
Among the most arresting artefacts of the Third Reich’s collapse are its last official postage stamps, issued as Nazi Germany crumbled. One depicts a Waffen-SS machine gunner with the ghostly figure of Jakob Grimminger in the background, bearing the infamous ‘blood flag’ of the failed 1923 Munich Putsch. A sacred relic of Nazi mythology, it vanished in 1945. Grimminger, who carried it through rallies and state funerals, never revealed its fate. Rumour has it he burned it on orders as the Allies closed in.
The companion stamp in the pair is no less charged: an SA man holding a torch, evoking both the regime’s early days and its carefully staged symbolism. These two stamps are more than postal history. They’re artefacts of a collapsing ideology still clinging to spectacle.
Also pictured: two Austrian stamps that were later defaced during the Allied occupation. With Hitler’s face obliterated by overprints or heavy censor bars, these overprints weren’t just practical – they were part of the denazification effort. The stamps could still be used, but the dictator’s image had to go.
From torchbearers to black bars, these small rectangles of paper trace the trajectory of a regime: its rise, pageantry, and final erasure.
The Battle of Brass and Bakelite
In the Second World War, Britain faced unprecedented material shortages – especially after the fall of France and the evacuation of the BEF in 1940. Traditional brass shoulder titles and specialist trade badges quickly disappeared, replaced by cloth patches.
To conserve metals, Bakelite stepped into the breach. The once-gleaming brass insignia were melted down for the war effort, and a new generation of buttons and badges was born. Made in a variety of colours and sizes, these Bakelite pieces became everyday kit for troops.
Cap and beret badges were produced in brown or silver-coloured Bakelite, identifiable by their distinctive small, flat blade-like fittings on the reverse. The first photo shows the familiar General Service buttons worn by all infantry, including the Home Guard. Later images show a Middlesex Regiment beret badge and a Royal Air Force side cap badge – both produced in Bakelite.
The last image is a particularly poignant reminder: buttons of the Polish forces in exile, a symbol of resilience crafted in Britain’s hour of need.
