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scarf. I lie in bed staring up at the ceiling and, for the first time in months, calculate how much I owe to everybody. The bank, VISA, my Harvey Nichols card, my Debenhams card, my Fenwicks card . . . And now Suze, too.
    It’s about . . . let’s think . . . it’s about £6,000.
    A cold feeling creeps over me as I contemplate this figure. How on earth am I going to find £6,000? I could save £6 a week for a thousand weeks. Or £12 a week for five hundred weeks. Or . . . or £60 a week for a hundred weeks. That’s more like it. But how the hell am I going to find £60 a week?
    Or I could bone up on lots of general knowledge and go on a game show. Or invent something really clever. Or I could . . . win the lottery. At the thought, a lovely warm glow creeps over me, and I close my eyes and snuggle back down into bed. The lottery is by far the best solution.
    I wouldn’t aim to win the jackpot of course—that’s
completely
unlikely. But one of those minor prizes. There seem to be heaps of those going around. Say, £100,000. That would do. I could pay off all my debts, buy a car, buy a flat . . .
    Actually, better make it £200,000. Or a quarter of a million.
    Or, even better, one of those shared jackpots. “The five winners will each receive £1.3 million.” (I love the way they say that: “One point three.” As if that extra £300,000 is a tiny, insignificant amount. As if you wouldn’t notice whether it was there or not.)
    One point three million should see me straight. And it’s not being greedy, is it, to want to share your jackpot? Please, God, I think, let me win the lottery and I promise to share nicely.
     
     
    And so, on the way down to my parents’ house I stop off at a petrol station to buy a couple of lottery tickets. Choosing the numbers takes about half an hour. I know 44 always does well, and 42. But what about the rest? I write out a few series of numbers on a piece of paper and squint at them, trying to imagine them on the telly.
1 6 9 16 23 44
    No! Terrible! What am I thinking of? One never comes up, for a start. And 6 and 9 look wrong, too.
3 14 21 25 36 44
    That’s a bit better. I fill in the numbers on the ticket.
5 11 18 27 28 42
    I’m quite impressed by this one. It
looks
like a winner. I can just imagine Moira Stewart reading it out on the news. “One ticket-holder, believed to live in southwest London, has won an estimated jackpot of £10 million.”
    For a moment, I feel faint. What’ll I do with £10 million? Where will I start?
    Well, a huge party to begin with. Somewhere smart but cool, with loads of champagne and dancing and a taxi service so no one has to drive. And going-home presents, like really nice bubble bath or something. (Does Calvin Klein do bubble bath?)
    Then I’ll buy houses for all my family and friends, of course. I lean against the lottery stand and close my eyes to concentrate. Suppose I buy twenty houses at £250,000 each. That’ll leave me . . . 5 million. Plus about £50,000 on the party.
    So that’s £4,950,000. Oh, and I need £6,000 to pay off all my credit cards and overdraft. Plus £300 for Suze. Call it £7,000. So that leaves . . . £4,943,000.
    Obviously, I’ll do loads for charity. In fact, I’ll probably set up a charitable foundation. I’ll support all those unfashionable charities that get ignored, like skin diseases and home helps for the elderly. And I’ll send a great big check to my old English teacher, Mrs. James, so she can restock the school library. Perhaps they’ll even rename it after me. The Bloomwood Library.
    Oh, and £300 for that swirly coat in Whistles, which I
must
buy before they’re all snapped up. So how much does that leave? Four million, nine hundred and forty-three thousand, minus—
    “Excuse me.” A voice interrupts me and I look up dazedly. The woman behind is trying to get at the pen.
    “Sorry,” I say, and politely make way. But the interruption has made me lose track of my calculations. Was it 4 million or 5