The Trouble With Money (The diary of a Lottery winner)
Page 4
We dined in style, lingered over coffee and brandy (I had half a fat cigar, much to Jules’s dismay) and then went for a little walk. Weather okay – light breeze, but a damned sight warmer than UK. Just round St Mark’s, looked at the major landmarks, watched the people to-ing and fro-ing around Florian’s, trying to suss out the usual procedure so we feel comfortable tomorrow. And so to bed, whacked.
Saturday, February 2
No orchestra, no string quartet, just piped music. There were musicians at the restaurant across the Square, but I had set my heart on Florian’s. This morning, however, Florian’s was just an upmarket (i.e. let’s rip off those daft bastards prepared to pay these silly prices) café. We went inside because there was a chill in the air, and found the ambience of the little salons very cosy and somehow comforting; and very good for looking down on all the plebs playing with the pigeons outside. Very good coffee too, pretty good pastries, but stupid bloody bill. It translated to almost twenty quid! Didn’t leave a tip. Sod it! Two loitering waiters gave us a good look as we left; presumably to remember us so they can gob in our coffee if we dare return.
Did the Basilica, the Campanile, strolled round some enchanting by-ways to the Rialto Bridge, and strolled many more on the way back. And so to bed, cream-crackered.
NOTES
Added later – LCFC lost again! Twice in the lead, but Chelsea won 3-2. Shit.
Sunday, February 3
The bells heralded the sun, as if by magic. And when the Sunday clang had faded we joined a surprisingly big crowd (for February) of heathen tourists enjoying the sunshine in the Square while the locals worshipped. About a minute after the priests had finished their morning shift a young string quartet set up outside Florian’s. Jules and I sat outside, to one side, watching them and enjoying their music. The one waiter on outside duty studiously ignored us for all of 10 minutes, until I lit up a big cigar (much to Jules’s annoyance), and then he came scurrying to take our order – coffee only. We sat listening and people-watching for almost half an hour, and then decided we finally had Florian’s out of our system. The bill was less than a tenner! So I left a reasonable (10 per cent) tip! Jules nearly fainted.
Finally found a gondolier we liked the look of and who wasn’t overly pushy. ‘You call me Alfonso, young lovers,’ said the swarthy salesman through his luxuriant moustache.
I helped a laughing Jules into his gondola. ‘Ah, romantic gentleman!’ said Alfonso. ‘I sing for you, for nothing. No extra charge.’ He wasn’t exactly one of the three tenors – more like a fiver – but he sang Amore and, for some unfathomable reason, Rock Around The Clock! Must be looking my age.
My tip was small – because the fare was so large. Forked out Euro-equivalent of nearly £60! Must be fucking mad!!
And so to bed, ready primed. Lovely, lovely, lovely.
Monday, February 4
Had a lazy, hazy day. Found an English paper and then a downmarket café with an even nicer ambience than Florian’s, plus proper prices, and watched the people go by. Wandered round a few shops, bought a Venetian glass perfume bottle with a shape like Marilyn Monroe, and had a £3 spaghetti each for lunch, followed by ice-cream. Probably our best meal in Venice! Didn’t have a big cigar afterwards (much to Jules’s unspoken appreciation). In the afternoon we had a look at the Doge’s Palace (spectacular but very tiring), and then enjoyed the last fleeting rays of the sun by the waterfront, watching the day’s last day trippers depart in their boats.
And so early to bed.
Tuesday, February 5
Up at five o’clock to catch early coach and plane. Home by lunch-time. House still there. I dealt with a small mountain of junk-mail, checked the answerphone – two blanks – and then popped into the office to do the same there. Half a dozen messages, none urgent, but the last was Eric Butler telling me he would accept my ridiculously high quote. Stupid git.
Sorry, Diary, I have to eat you. No – can’t do it. Too crusty.
Caught up on the story about the Canadian supply teacher who’s been seducing young boys. Amy Gehring, aged 26, it says. (Good attention to detail – should definitely have been a journalist and not a printer.)
My God, what is today’s youth coming to! If a grown woman had tried to have her wicked way with me when I was 15 or 16 I would have been gratitude personified. Accepted those open legs with open arms, as it were. Learned any lesson the teacher cared to give me. She could have given me a good old gehring any time! What do this bunch do? Run off and tell Mummy! Is this Political Correctness gone mad? Or are they all wuzzies?
NOTES
An email for each day away waiting for me from FR:
Watched Groundhog Day last night. Four times!
Watched Groundhog Day last night. Four times!
Watched Groundhog Day last night. Four times!
Did I tell you about Groundhog Day? Or is it déjà vu?
Wednesday, February 6
Jules and I are still in holiday mode. And there’s no reason why we shouldn’t have a few more lazy hazy days. We have decided to spend the rest of the week ‘chilling out’. Reading, looking for our dream house, and similar stuff. I shall pop into the office each day just to check the mail and answerphone, but that’s all.
Friday, February 8
First meeting with our new financial adviser, one Gerrard Ambleton-Pike (GAP, for short, Jules and I decided later). Anthony was right: nice bloke, neat and dark and dapper, charming manner, you’d trust him with your life, your wife, or your fortune, within half an hour of meeting him. I wasn’t ready to risk the first two, but I happily nodded and said ‘yes’ to all his financial suggestions.
Within a few days we will have stocks and shares, unit trusts, insurance bonds, gilt edged thingies, a medium-risk-medium-income wotsit, annuities, oojahmaflips, and so on. All in all, apparently, a broad portfolio that should survive all market fluctuations. Good job I know about these things!
Oh yes, and a couple of building society accounts (reasonable interest in these lean days) to see to our gifts and immediate subsistence. Subsistence! A few weeks ago I would have given up a testicle for a building society book with all those noughts in it. Well, the nail on my little toe on my left foot.
Saturday, February 9
Jules and I had determined on another lazy hazy day, in readiness for dinner with FR and MJ. It would undoubtedly be long and boozy. So we started the day, slopping around in our dressing gowns, with a mega-fry-up: sausages, black pud, the lot. I was about to go up to shower and shave when the TV breakfast news announced, totally out of the blue, the death of Princess Margaret. Sorry, Windsors, but I wasn’t in the slightest bit moved.
In the evening Jules and I were sort of watching the final of Pop Idol on the bedroom TV as we changed for our date, and it occurred to me that this superficial programme had struck a chord with the nation. Millions of people (not including us!) were desperate to know who would be the Pop Idol – Gareth or Will? – but they had hardly raised an eyebrow that the sister of the Queen had died.
Celebrity is the new aristocracy now. That’s not particularly bright of us, but at least it means we can build ’em up and knock ’em down whenever we like.
Jules and I agreed – we wouldn’t tell FR and MJ about our win just yet. Unless the moment arrived naturally. It almost did.
FR did one of his Chinese stir-fries, which meant MJ was drinking for a change, although left to his own devices, a kitchen, and a wok, Frankie boy must have knocked back almost as many as when his lovely missus cooks. Afterwards we played a long and silly game of Pictionary, which got sillier by the wine glass. (Came up with a cracker for ‘capsize’ – drew a cap and wrote 61/2 on it! FR got it but the girls disallowed it because I had written the numbers. Boo!)
As the night wound down, over coffee and port and desultory, drunken banter, FR said: ‘I might have a big story next week.’
I had visions of a council scandal or something, or a doctor with evidence to link MMR to autism. No, nothing t
hat prosaic.
‘I’ve got a strong lead on that local Lottery winner,’ he added. ‘Several million, I think.’
Neither he nor MJ saw the quick look that passed between Jules and me.
‘What? Got a name, or anything?’ I asked as innocently as I could.
‘Should have soon. I know the shop where the ticket was sold. I know who sold the winning ticket. And she’s got a good contact at Camelot’
‘Sure it’s not just a tenner?’
‘Nah – definitely the jackpot.’
We were still bantering on the doorstep when I teased, ‘Actually I know the Lottery winner.’
‘Oh, yeah?’ said FR. ‘Who’s that then?’
‘Us!’ I said and couldn’t hold back laughter verging on hysteria.
‘Oh, very funny ...’
That’s the trouble with lifelong friends. FR knows me too well …
Sunday, February 10
Just the two of us playing golf, both with semi-hangovers (Chris and Dave did the Medal yesterday, with Peter B). Amazingly we both played reasonably well. I won on the last hole, and savoured my pint. Spent the afternoon ensconced in front of the box for a feast of sport – Davis Cup tennis in which Henman and Rusedski did their normal pressure-on/fold-up job, followed by a smidge of West Brom v Norwich, followed by African Nations Cup, won by Macaroons, followed by a drop of snooker. Gave the Winter Olympics a miss.
Must be slipping.
Tuesday, February 12
Drafted replies to enquiries about sale of printing business. Told a Mr Barry Johnson the unvarnished truth – that it was a profitable if smallish concern, and he was welcome to come and visit, see the set-up and the books, any time he liked. Told beaky bastard Jim Felix there was a slight hold-up: I had had so many enquiries that, to ensure that the business – and its fine reputation – remained intact, I had devised a questionnaire to sort out the Dom Casuals from the Copperplates (printers’ joke even he might appreciate) and to deter time-wasters. Would he please bear with me and spare a few minutes to fill in the form.
Copy attached:
How many years have you been in printing?
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Briefly outline your experience
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Do you know the area well?
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Do you have an affinity with the area?
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Have you contacts among the local business community? i.e. bankers, estate agents, travel agents, solicitors, managing directors, etc
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Do you have any connection with the Freemasons?
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Which trouser leg do you roll up?
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A. He never was the sharpest serif in the box, so he’ll never realise.
B. Even if he does, serves the thick bastard right. He made my life a misery for two years; virtually made me leave a job I loved.
Thursday, February 14
Something to do with St Valentine, I believe. Jules and I gave up sending cards to each other several years ago. Bloody commercial rip-off. I tell her at least once a year how much I love her.
Finished Harry Potter – great story, brilliantly told – so at last I can get back to Kenneth Williams.
Saturday, February 16
My God, did we whup those Paddies! Best rugby I’ve ever seen by an English team. Jonny Wilkinson, I love you.
So, Mr Williams – asseveration. A solemn declaration (from the verb asseverate). Clever bastard. But if nobody knows the word, solemn declaration will do nicely. It's otiose, otherwise.
Sunday, February 17
Had both the kids round for roast lamb, for which I sacrificed a game of golf. God, we can afford a whole leg of lamb now – we must be rich! Sarah has had her first scan, and all seems to be well with our first grandchild. She and Mike didn’t want to know the sex, which for some reason – I know not why – I find admirable. (Jules is secretly hoping for a granddaughter; I don’t give a toss.)
Cory arrived at that point and immediately asked, ‘Sex?’
Mike said: ‘Well, I’m hoping we’ll still manage it for a few weeks yet.’
Sarah had the merest tinge of a blush, soon dispelled by shoving his arm and telling him to ‘Sod off!’ I laughed too much for Jules’s liking.
Cory abruptly changed the subject. ‘Come and have a look, everybody.’ He led us to the front door and opened it to reveal a Mercedes-Benz on the drive.
‘Jesus, not again, Cory,’ I implored, somewhat ridiculously, because the evidence was there in shiny black and chrome.
‘A bargain!’
‘How much?’
‘Don’t think you want to know, Dad. Just trust me.’
I didn’t. I remember too many of his boyhood escapades that ended in disaster (like the time he and his little pal decided to mate their hamsters and it cost me a small fortune to get a builder in to retrieve the randy rodents from under the floor-boards). But I resolved to try.
Otherwise, a lovely day.
MLTJ.
NOTES
No game for LCFC, thank God.
Just remembered: took the opportunity, while Jules was trying to catch up with the leg of lamb to get her lunch schedule back on track (mere half hour late, in the event), to get the kids organised for our wedding anniversary. They’re all for it.
Monday, February 18
Brotherly phone call from Arnie at work (no doubt so Jules wouldn’t overhear); the first brotherly phone call for many a long year. Wonder why? He chatted amiably about the weather, the garden, asked how we found Venice (‘flew to the top of Italy, down a bit, and there it was!’), and finally mentioned in passing that Ron was now out of work. I refrained from saying ‘idle bastard’; just let the silence – left for my reply – go on until Arnie could bear it no longer.
‘I’ll see he’s all right, though,’ he jabbered. ‘You know, er, well, um …’
I put him out of his misery. ‘Won’t be long now, Arnie. All the paperwork is still going through. I could let you have twenty grand, to be going on with, or if you give it another week you can have the lot. It’s up to you.’
He obviously didn’t want to sound greedy, or desperate. He settled for another week. Actually he could have had it by now, but I didn’t see why I should put myself out for him.
Tuesday, February 19
Had a leisurely breakfast and wished I hadn’t, because Jules and I had one of our little spats. One of those where she swears white is black until she is black in the face, thus proving her case, and where I am always wrong unless I can provide documentary proof, in which case the documents are probably forged. I tried to tell her once that in fact I was right at least 90 per cent of the time, and we spent a whole evening arguing that one. She’s a stubborn sod.
Anyway, I made some throw-away remark about the restaurant near the Rialto Bridge where we’d had our cheap pasta, and she threw it straight back with the asseveration that it was actually near that other bridge, whose name eluded her for the moment. We batted this back and forth for a while until I could stand it no longer and went off in search of our map of Venice.
We agreed that the bridge she had in mind was the Ponte Scalzi, and that there was a plethora of restaurants, some cheap, some not so cheap, in the neighbouring streets, but we couldn’t even get close on where Our Trattoria might be. We left the spat unfinished and unresolved, and I went to work. It will return to haunt us, no doubt.
Fairly busy day, doing a hasty mail-shot for Wellington’s (even though I have probably had my last free Christmas turkey from them). Resisted the temptation to ring Tourist Information in Venice.
Wrote cheques fo
r the clan this evening. Something odd – strangely liberating but still frightening – about writing cheques for £50,000. Wait till I write out the big ones for the kids!
Thursday, February 21
It’s nearly midnight as I sit here in front of the telly, diary on knee, absolutely gripped by … CURLING!
What a nail-biter. GB won Winter Olympics gold medal with the last stone on the last end. And what a captain’s innings by Rhona Martin. Magnificent. Marred not even by the realisation that it was really a Scottish victory. Every one a Caledonian Ice Maiden. Well done, bonny lasses!
And so to bed – spare room bed (promised not to wake Jules).
NOTES
One more thing – must mention death of John Thaw. A nice feller, it seems, as well as a great actor. Sad loss. But Inspector Morse has got a lot to answer for: there was hardly a murder in Oxford before he arrived on the scene – but after that at least three a week.
Friday, February 22
Ruth was first to phone with her thanks – said she was off to Marks & Spencer to look for a nice winter coat. All the siblings phoned during the course of the day, except Arnie.
That’s really the final straw, Bro! Not a penny more, even if little Ronnie ends up on Skid Row, or worse, as he well might with you as a role model.
I did an HH Pasta Special. We drank lots of wine.
MLTJ. Took a long time – all that wine. Jules didn’t complain.