The Lottery
‘QUICK, quick, turn on the TV,” I yell from the kitchen as I get him another bowl of peanuts.
Sometimes he frustrates me – not in a teeth-grinding “I-could-murder-you” way – but more of a “we’ve-been-married-for-32-years-and-I-feel-like-hitting-you-over-the-headwith-the-remote-control” sort of way.
Trouble is I’ve let him get away with it for too many years and now I’ve missed the beginning of my programme. Frustrated, I flop down onto my sofa, the faded blue leather one, and glare at him sprawled out on his softer pink velvet sofa.
“See,” I say, jabbing my finger at the screen, as if that would make any difference. “I told you we’d miss the beginning of the lottery show.”
He looks at me and crunches a peanut. “You won’t win. How long have you had those same numbers?” he asks, spreading out on his sofa like Nero, brushing peanut crumbs from his chest onto the floor.
“Twenty years,” I reply, picking up my pencil and holding my ticket ready, knowing he’s right. In 20 years I haven’t been a pencil tick near to winning, I think.
REMEMBER when
