I bought a scratch card this week.
The urge comes upon me every few months. I try to resist, as it feels like a bit of a common thing to do*, and I fear it’s a slippery slope then to playing bingo online during the day and appearing on Jeremy Kyle, but I only ever do it in secret, with only me in my company, so I think it’s OK. That IS what makes things OK isn’t it?
Maybe it’s the secret part that makes it more exciting, but there is something about those few minutes before you scratch that are totally detached from reality. Suddenly your life is at a crossroads. Under that shiny coating could be £100,000. A whole new future could be waiting for you.
I sat on a wall on the way home to scratch it. (Another rather a common thing to do surely?) I imagined for a moment what I might do with £100,000, a million pounds, ten million pounds. I know you can’t win that much, but I feel it’s good to aim high.
What sort of house would I buy? Would I retire to the country, and fill a beautiful rose covered cottage with pine furniture and doilies? Or would I jet over to New York and spend my days sat surrounded by shoes and cocktails, gazing out over the city skyline through my floor to ceiling windows?
Just for a minute, the world is my oyster.
And then I can bear it no longer. I get out what is surely the luckiest penny in my purse and start scratching.
£50, £10, £1,000. That would do me.
£100,000, £20, £100,000. Yes! I’m going to be rich!
£5, £5,000, £1,000. Oh. No I’m not.
I shove the card in my back pocket and go home. Maybe next time.
*Apologies to regular scratch card buyers, I can’t help it, it feels chavvy.