langardsmythe-blog

[langardsmythe-blog]

Millions

What would you do if you just found out that you had won the lottery? After skipping around the living room. After flailing your arms erratically. After letting out an embarrassed squeal. And an involuntary fart. After seeing your sweaty, blushing figure in the mirror. After gathering yourself. After double-checking your numbers. After texting Mel. After dialling the lottery hotline. After the endless automated instructions. After finally speaking to a human. After giddily recounting how you found out you’d won. After the operator’s obvious disinterest. After answering his questions. After listening to the tinny drone of the hold music. After waiting another four minutes. After confirmation of your win. After a less-than-sincere congratulations. After he has hung up. After Mel has burst in, screaming profanities. After showing her the ticket. After the tears and then the howls of laughter. After the first bottle of wine. After the second. After the pizza delivery. After forgetting the words to ‘The Winner Takes It All’. After falling asleep on the sofa. After the bleary- eyed phone call that woke you up. “They’re coming!” After waking Mel. “Mel, they’re coming!” After the panic and the excitement kicks in, and the headache too. After jumping in the shower. After getting dressed and redressed. After applying some slap. After burning the toast and letting the tea go cold. After rushing around to get the place tidy. After the knock on the door. After the introductions and the handshakes. After the offer of a cuppa. After the polite refusals. After a woman in an immaculate suit has checked the ticket. After scrabbling around for your passport. After filling out the forms. After signing your name by all the X’s. After adding more slap. After being shoved in front of a photographer. After posing with the giant cheque, forcing a showbiz smile. After another round of handshakes. After the sudden goodbyes. After closing the door and putting the kettle on. After a slice of cold pizza. After two paracetamols. After falling back on the sofa. After imagining telling the Barstow’s to shove their job. After another embarrassed squeal. And another involuntary fart.