Don't write about the Lottery?

If someone says don't do it then I find ways to do it. When an advice column told us that stories about the National Lottery were not a good idea I decided that I would write one.It is an illusion. It looks as if the story is about gambling, losing, winning etc. but it is actually about the relationship between two good friends. Is that cheating? Decide for yourselves:



Winners:



When the National Lottery arrived in 1994 Melvyn was excited along with the rest of the nation. The prospect of never having to worry about money ever again was extremely tempting. So he went along every week and joined the queue to buy his ticket.
“Fourteen million to one chance,” Pete, his best friend, reminded him constantly.
“You’re wasting your money.”

“Someone wins every week and when it’s me you’ll be getting your share, you old cynic,” replied Melvyn.

He never watched the draw. Every Sunday morning he would go and buy his paper and check his numbers. The sense of anticipation was delicious.
On one occasion the first three numbers matched his. He hardly dare look at the next one. He did and was disappointed. The last two were also not on his ticket. Never mind, thought Melvyn, there is always next week, and a tenner is welcome.

On ‘rollover’ draws he would buy extra numbers. Seven lines usually. His simple arithmetic told him that by buying seven lines he reduced the odds from fourteen million to two million to one. This may, or may not, have been the case but it raised his optimism; there is huge difference between fourteen million and a mere two million.


After he had bought his ticket he would drive home dreaming of the things he would do with his fortune………….. A nice big bungalow; five or six bedrooms, a villa in Spain and a cottage in Scotland or Ireland. Plenty for his brother and a few thousands scattered amongst friends and relatives. He would have time to travel and to do all the things that going to work prevented him from doing. Pete would do well, of course, and Melvyn would take great pleasure in constantly reminding him of his cynicism.


When the Wednesday draw was announced in 1997 his hopes soared: now there was twice as much opportunity each week. He now regularly bought four lines on Saturday and four on Wednesday. Then along came the Euro Lottery, with even bigger prizes; two lines on Friday. He spent eleven pounds a week on Lottery tickets; well, he could afford it.
When he told Pete he was attacked with the arithmetic:
“Eleven pounds a week! Just a minute, let me work this out………..that’s five hundred and seventy two pounds a year! That’s a week in Marbella.”


“Don’t forget the occasional scratch card,” Melvyn added. “Let’s call it a round £600. I hate untidy numbers.”


“A week in Tenerife then. Seriously, just think what you could do with that money.”


“Excuse me; Mr Arithmetic. How much do you spend on red wine each week, eh? It’s probably more than my £11.”


“That’s different. Wine is one of life’s necessities.”


“Oh, is it - then how come I can manage without it? Anyone can find an expense that is not essential, but part of the pleasure of living. Mine happens to be my Lottery. Next time a bottle of red hits the jackpot and makes you a millionaire, let me know.”

*

After this exchange every time they met there was a little more playful banter. Pete kept a tally and reminded Melvyn of how much he had spent on tickets:
“£33 since we last met Mel, and £6,000 or so since you started. You don’t seem to be very lucky Melvyn. Why don’t you just give it up?”


“I don’t believe in luck; just random chance. So called ‘lucky’ people have just as much chance as everyone else who buys a ticket. Anyway, I won a tenner two weeks ago. I notice you conveniently leave these little wins out of your calculations: Lies, damn lies and statistics. What’s the wine bill this week, by the way?”

*

Melvyn dreamed on and Pete kept adding up. Year on year they persisted; always friendly – it was their game.
Melvyn looked forward to his retirement. His lottery routine continued and his luck never faltered – the occasional tenner, and once the princely sum of £73. On that occasion Melvyn phoned Pete immediately to tell him.

One Thursday afternoon Pete called round; both were retired now, and he announced, with a raspberry fanfare, that Melvyn had now spent £15,000 on lottery tickets. As he spoke the words his speech faltered:
“Are you OK Mel?”
“Not really. You know what’s funny; your sums are wrong. Twice recently I forgot to buy my tickets! I have not been feeling too good; constant headaches.”
“Get yourself to the docs mate.”

*

When Pete called round the following week Melvyn was in bed.
“Come on lazybones, it’s nearly noon,” he said, as he poked his head around the bedroom door. “Bloody hell you look like death! I’m calling an ambulance.”

*

Melvyn’s brain tumour was very advanced and he was given two months to live. He spent most of his days sitting in the ward lounge, drifting in and out of a drug induced sleep. Pete called to see him every day, and afterwards often cried at the appalling deterioration he saw in his old friend. He started to buy Melvyn’s lottery tickets for him and brought them along to the hospital. They enjoyed a little laugh at this irony.
“If I could escape from this institution I would pop round the ‘offy’ and get you a case of Merlot.”
The effort of this little speech exhausted Melvyn. He closed his eyes for a minute and they both sat in silence. Melvyn broke it:
“I never won those millions did I?”
“So what,” Pete smiled. “Anyway, the fat lady hasn’t sung yet.”


That Saturday as he bought the lottery ticket on his way to the hospital, Pete found himself wishing that this could be the ‘big one’. He would love to give Melvyn the ticket he always dreamed of. When he arrived the ward sister informed him of Melvyn’s death just two hours earlier.
The ticket never came out of Pete’s wallet and was never checked: not because Pete forgot about it, but because he wanted it to remain in a permanent state of anticipation, never ever checked and therefore always in with a chance; in honour of the only real pleasure the lottery gave to his dear friend.


©G E Wilkinson 10/07