The Trouble With Money (The diary of a Lottery winner)

by Frank Rawlins

  Saturday, February 23

  Jules and I did some serious window-shopping, around all the main estate agents in the town centre. We took away some free magazines and brochures (even those I’d printed for Butler & Stone) but didn’t stop to talk or give any details. Don’t want estate agents telling the world we’re looking for an expensive house.

  When we got back the answerphone was red hot. Nine messages, said the little display. We listened together. The first four were all blanks (caller hung up), then a brief message from Mags, saying thanks for the cheque but she had to speak to us personally to say thanks properly, and she would ring back later. The last four were all blanks; no doubt Mags trying to make sure she and Arnie didn’t alienate themselves any further.

  Her idea or Arnie’s?

  Too late or not?

  MLTJ .

  NOTES

  Beaten by Derby, of all teams! And not just the odd goal, but 3-0 thrashing. This is now reaching embarrassing proportions. Bassett must go! How can we have fallen this low after the miracles of Martin O’Neill?

  I didn’t watch this one, but we’ve won a skiing medal (albeit bronze) in Winter Olympics. A Brit skiing medal! Match that, Martin O’Neill.

  Sunday, February 24

  Another game of golf sacrificed, this time to have Sunday lunch at Greythorn with Mike and Sarah. But well worth it. What a contrast to Arnie and Mags. This takes some believing – but they’re not absolutely sure if they want half-a-million quid! They told us all this before Cory arrived – didn’t want to put any pressure on him or put him in an awkward position. As if.

  Apparently Mike is worried about what it will do to him, and therefore to Sarah. He made it sound quite reasonable and logical. Not to mention shocking!

  ‘I’m only twenty-nine, Aitch. I really enjoy my work, and I’m just starting to make some significant moves up the career ladder. I don’t really want to do anything else, until I’ve achieved all I think I can achieve. It’s not as if you can be a self-employed sports centre manager.’

  ‘You could always buy your own sports centre!’ I ventured jokingly.

  ‘It would take all you’ve got, Aitch – I’ve checked. Unless you’d like to come in with me, of course.’

  He was joking, of course. Then came the serious bit – ‘The thing is, it wouldn’t be Cory you’d have to worry about. It would be me, if I didn’t have any work. I couldn’t cope. I’d probably be a piss-head within a month. I haven’t told you this before, but at university I had quite a drink problem. You know what students are like. But I was way over the top. Thankfully I saw the light in time. Getting fit, running, sport – it saved my life. Now I can have a good drink and then run it off the next day. And it doesn’t bother me if I don’t have a drink for months.’

  Jules and I were suitably gobsmacked. Our son-in-law had kept this little bombshell to himself. So had Sarah. But now there was a good reason to tell us. Which made everything okay. What a fine fellow my daughter has married!

  Anyway, the upshot is, they’ve decided to have a serious think about how much money they really need when Sarah gives up work (she intends to stay at home until the kids – yes, kids plural – are at school, as did her own mother). Certainly it would be nice to have their mortgage paid off, and a little bit put by, but as for anything else ...

  We told them to do their sums.

  Cory arrived late in the Merc. Looking downcast – well, for him. The bloke he’d been intending to sell it to had pulled out of the deal.

  ‘I warned you,’ I said.

  ‘You did,’ he said.

  We left it at that. Money wasn’t mentioned again throughout the day.

  Got home and there was another message from Mags on the answerphone – sorry to miss us again, please be in Monday evening, will ring again. Okay, will be in.

  MLTJ. Bloody hat-trick! Three nights in a row! Haven’t had one of them for a long time.

  Monday, February 25

  Mags rang just as I was engrossed in the Holiday programme, checking out Barbados for my anniversary surprise. Very polite, fulsome thanks, trying very hard not to put her foot in it. Arnie had obviously decided he ought to say something, too. He came on and thanked us politely (I could imagine his gritted teeth) and then quickly skipped on to LCFC – yes, Basset must go! – and other things we could discuss without arguing.

  Give him his due, he tried hard.

  Happy birthday, Dad. Wish I could tell you properly; so you would understand.

  Wednesday, February 27

  This entry is dedicated to the memory of Spike Milligan. My boyhood hero. The man who almost single-handedly broke the mould of British comedy, and nearly broke himself in the process. He was to comedy what Elvis and then the Beatles were to popular music. He changed it forever.

  I was only a whipper-snapper when The Goons were at their peak, but I still remember sitting by our old wireless and laughing myself silly at the absurdity, the anarchy of it all, while Mum and Dad, and sometimes Arnie, looked at me as if I were the mad one, not Spike and Co. And that was the great thing – this belonged to us, not the old farts! I remember reading Puckoon for the first time. What a book! I still remember devouring his war memoirs for the first time. What a hero!

  Just to remind me lest I forget when I’m 83 (his age today when he died):

  ‘I speak Esperanto like a native.’

  ‘I have the body of an 18-year-old. I keep it in the fridge.’

  ‘Is anything worn under the kilt? No, it’s all in perfect working order.’

  ‘I wonder why people take an instant dislike to me? I know. It saves time.’

  Never!

  Thank you, Spike!

  While I’m at it …

  Thank you, Peter Sellers, Eric Morecambe (and little Ernie), Tommy Cooper, John Lennon, George Harrison, Elvis Presley, Buddy Holly, the Marx Brother, WC Fields, Marilyn Monroe, Stanley Matthews, Bobby Moore, My Dad in his living death (for letting me listen to The Goons and Rock ‘N Roll when it was all a mystery to him). Oh – Ian Dury. There ain't half been some clever bastards.

  Why only one woman, I wonder. It’s not so much a PI sexist thing, as a boy-role-model-hero thing; I think. If that makes sense.

  Friday, March 1

  March already. Where did Jan and Feb go to!?

  Snail mail is bad enough in these days of electronic communications; box numbers are sloths on a go-slow. Unless my correspondents are just naturally lax. But I finally got a reply today from the Beaky Bastard. And what a reply! Mr Felix wants to know which lodge I belong to; can I, in confidence of course, tell him who some of the senior Masons are; and he would prefer to roll up his right trouser leg because he has a wart-type growth on his left knee.

  His replies to the business aspects were cursory; those to the contacts/Freemasons questions effusive. Reading between the lines, I guess he had at some time probably tried to join the Freemasons and been rejected.

  I don’t know a thing about Freemasons, except the no doubt apocryphal stories of secret handshakes and roller-blind trousers, but I wasn’t going to let that stop me. I invented the Second Lodge Ondaleft, explained I couldn’t name any names but they were prominent ones locally, and said membership was by recommendation of a seven-year-plus member only. And I had been a member for six years and ten months.

  Two more replies – yes, Barry Johnson would like to come and see the business (he lives close-ish, near Buckingham, so I asked him to come next week), and a new enquiry from a Sally Balm. What a lovely name. Still not that many female ‘printers’ around (in the old-fashioned proper-apprenticeship sense, as opposed to learn-the-basics-in-an-afternoon desktop publishers), but those I know are good. I don’t know Miss Balm. Lives in Hertfordshire apparently but is hankering to move to Oxfordshire to be near her aged parents in Oxford. Good for her.

  NOTES

  Well done, Prince Philip! The Royal Concert created another cacophony when he asked a group of Aborigines in Australia if they still chucked s
pears at each other. Twat.

  Which reminds me. Good feminist joke –

  Why do women get thrush? So they know before they get married what it's like to live with an irritating twat.

  Saturday, March 2

  Lazy day. Pottered in the garden (general tidying, bit of pruning), which I enjoyed immensely. Caught up with The Rag, which is a now an addiction more than a pleasure – until I find gems like this headline: NEW CHURCH OPENS ON SUNDAY.

  Went round to Greythorn to watch France v England rugby match on Sky. (Suppose we ought to buy our own dish now, but Jules reckons I’d spend all day every day watching sport. Rubbish! I’d ration myself to football, rugby, golf, Test cricket, and curling.) England lost! Bad handling errors, not good defending. And we’re supposed to be Number One in the world rankings. Huh.

  Had a couple of pints on the way home at The Crown with FR and MJ. He’s still on the trail of the Lottery winner! He’s closer than he knows.

  MLTJ. Pretty damned good. Worth the wait.

  NOTES

  Prince Edward and Sophie Wotsit have announced they are both quitting their companies to help the Queen with her Golden Jubilee celebrations. Oh yeah!? The fact that both companies are ailing has got nothing to do with it, of course. Poor old Queen; I’ll be surprised if Eddie and Soph can organise a piss-up in a palace.

  Otiose Bassett must go!! Can’t bear to write the scores now.

  Tuesday, March 5

  Funny old life. Now I’m on the verge of giving up work, I’m enjoying it more than ever. Suppose it’s the release of the stress; knowing the next cheque isn’t vital to pay standing orders. Anyway, did a great lay-out for Butler & Stone, worth every penny of my exorbitant fee and much better than that bastard Dermot Stone deserves, and then had some enjoyable banter with clients who will soon be ex-clients. Heard on the radio on the way home that our skiing hero (Alain Baxter, who presumably has either a French or a dyslexic parent) has been accused of taking a banned drug and could lose his bronze medal. Stick to whisky, Alain!

  Wednesday, March 6

  Barry Johnson arrived an hour late; not a good omen. Said he’d lost his car keys, had to get the RAC in, and then found the keys in his briefcase! Oh dear. Still, he seemed a nice enough bloke. Tall, gangling, bespectacled, with a vague look behind his designer frames. Said he’d come into a little legacy and wanted to be his own boss. I didn’t tell him I’d come into a little legacy and wanted to be my own ex-boss. He looked at the office, the Mac system, my little printroom and press, the storeroom, the order book, the accounts, and declared himself very interested. He asked if he could take the accounts away to go through with his accountant. I agreed. He left without taking them, and returned an hour later, apologetic but apparently unembarrassed, to pick them up. I showed him out to his car. Just in case.

  Spent the evening sobbing through The Mirror’s Pride Of Britain Awards. What a humbling experience; what remarkable people. It puts money worries/Lottery wins in perspective. And Miss Vord – what a consummate professional. She looked lovely, she was sharp and confident, giving the audience and the viewer total confidence in the Awards, and never failed to get down on her knees to make herself the same height as the award-winning youngsters. What a lovely lady. And what brave winners. I really ought to give something back to life. But what?

  I’ll think about it.

  NOTES

  The Mirror is now the only national paper I read every day (I just got pissed off with all the time I was losing ploughing through newsprint, after a long day ploughing through newsprint). It is trying hard to befit its annual awards. It’s not yet the paper of my boyhood, of the incomparable Cassandra and Shock Issues and headlines that got straight to the heart of the matter, but it has improved in recent months. Just a shame about the 3am Girls and some of the so-called punning headlines. Why is no one brave enough to say to the subs, ‘What the fuck does this mean!?’ Or ‘Who wrote this shit!?’

  Thursday, March 7

  Now explain this, Aitch – dream I awoke from about five this morning:

  I was walking through a remote wood when suddenly the path was blocked by a mean-looking tramp holding a roast leg of lamb by his side. He was tapping it against his leg, as if he was ready to do something violent with it, rather than eat it, so I dashed off at right angles into the thicket. I soon came to a derelict church, its roof gone but parts of the walls standing. I dashed inside, and there was a lamb with three legs. It lifted a back leg to wee, just like a dog, and was standing there on one front leg and the opposite back leg with blood-red piss streaming from its nether bit. Terrified, I kept on running, straight past it and out the doorway at the far end. I ran like the wind until I tripped over a fallen branch. And then I woke up.

  Friday, March 8

  We had a photocopied leaflet through the door from the parish council telling us that the Usual Suspects had formed yet another committee to organise celebrations for the Queen’s Golden Jubilee. Their ideas for Monday June 3 so far amount to a street party and a fancy-dress men v women cricket match.

  Apparently families are welcome to make their own food and bring their own drink (the big-hearted district council is supplying funding ‘to buy hats, balloons, bunting, etc, some food and all of the soft drinks’. Wow! With the amount we pay in council tax, I would have thought they would also supply the Queen in a Royal Helicopter.).

  The committee wants more ideas before the first meeting in 10 days’ time. Jules suggested that as we would be taking our own food and drink why not take the sofa and telly along as well.

  There was a box to fill in saying how many adults and children would be coming from our family. We decided to hedge our bets. I wrote ‘2’ in the adults box and beside it added, ‘Possibles. Are Anti-Monarchist Republicans allowed to join the fun?’ Jules objected on the grounds that she wasn’t anti-monarchist and only a republican by association – with me.

  ‘Tough titty,’ I told her.

  Saturday, March 9

  Wow, the boys got a point! Bassett must still go!!

  MLTJ.

  Sunday, March 10

  Mother’s Day. Or Mothering Sunday, as my dear old Mum used to call it. And what a memorable day, thanks largely to one memorable moment. The kids took us to The Fox pub by the Oxford Canal, treated us to a lovely Sunday roast, and then insisted that I had to pay for my own lunch – I would get treated on Father’s Day. It was their little joke. I went along with it. I joked that in that case I wouldn’t have a pudding, although there were some of my favourites on the menu (bread and butter, apple and blackberry crumble, apple pie and ice cream). Jules joked that although she was full she would order a crumble – and I could have it. The kids joked that this wasn’t playing the game, and come Father’s Day I would have to pay for my own pudding.

  Any road up, we were all still joshing in a happy family way when the young waitress turned up with the puddings. She asked who wanted the crumble, and Jules gestured towards me. Jules and I were sitting against a wall, and the waitress had to reach over with the dessert. She would have had to elbow Mike and Sarah apart to actually place the bowl in front of me, so I reached out to take it. No one is quite sure what happened next, but it appears the waitress let go before I had a proper grasp on the bowl.

  It tipped upside down – in seeming slow motion, said Sarah – and fell into my lap. Although I reacted quickly to right the bowl, most of the custard had already spilled out on to my lap. For a while I had the hottest dick in the land. I plonked the bowl, still containing most of the crumble but only a little custard, on the table and stood up in one swift movement. Napkins came at my groin from all angles, from four people worried that the yellow goo was scalding me. It was hot, but fortunately not that hot.

  The waitress, obviously just a schoolgirl earning some pocket-money, had stood riveted to the spot during the whole of this farce, open-mouthed and more shocked than me. Fortunately for her, I had had quite a few glasses of wine, and saw the funny side just as I wa
s about to rant and rave at her.

  ‘I hope you’re insured,’ I blustered, with the hint of a smile, ‘because when I sue you for compensation, you’ll be paying for this for the next 50 years.’

  Unfortunately for her, she hadn’t spotted the hint of a smile. She still didn’t know what to say and was close to tears. So I added in a sort of avuncular way, ‘It’s all right, love, I’m only joking. I’m not burned and I won’t sue you.’

  The family, who should have known me better, seemed as relieved as the waitress. So relieved that hilarity set in. The Hot Custard Incident was replayed over and over again, amid hoots and tears of laughter (including mine), and the kids threatened to call me Colonel Custard from now on.

  Now that’s taking my magnanimity too far. I’ll kill the first one who dares. In the library, with a blunt instrument. Namely a not-very-sharp trombone.

  I can see now why I would never have made a journalist. FR would have wrapped that lot up in half the words and made it funnier.

  Monday, March 11

  The continuing feel-good mode ended abruptly this evening. Cory arrived out of the blue in a Peugeot 306, announced he’d sold the Merc for a nice profit, and could he have a hundred grand, please!

  I bottled my initial reaction and asked him as calmly as I could, ‘What for?’

  ‘Business,’ he said.

  ‘What business is this then?’ I asked.

  ‘Classic cars. Well, prestige cars really, I suppose.’

  ‘So, you’re a used car salesman now.’