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

by Frank Rawlins

  JTTTML. In a bit better mood but not that good.

  NOTES

  Lost again. Bassett must go.

  Tuesday, April 2

  I think Jules said three words to me tonight. I decided that trying to jolly her up might have the opposite effect – it usually does with me when I’m in a strop.

  NOTES

  Distinct lack of interest in Book Of Remembrance for the Queen Mum, by all accounts. About a dozen people queuing at an Alton Towers-type snaking-ribbon queuing station that would have accommodated several thousand. Seems I might have been right.

  Thursday, April 4

  I am writing this in Cornwall. We set off for Chez Pedro Et Murdo at 8.15am, followed a two-stop strategy for ultra-expensive motorway coffee (but a bargain offer on the second and third Harry Potters), and arrived at about 1.30am. Not bad going.

  Do we tell them about the win or not? No, not until we’re ready to tell everyone. Unless we get pissed, of course. What am I saying? – we always get pissed.

  Jules always relaxes when we come to Cornwall, seeing her old mate again. And she unburdened herself on the section between the two service stations. She was worried about her HRT pills. Suddenly, after three years, she was feeling all the things they were supposed to prevent. And had prevented. Snappy, achy, sometimes nauseous, detached, neurotic almost. Hadn’t I noticed? Well …

  Of course I had; she can read me like a shopping list. But she had made a decision to see her doctor and perhaps get a different prescription. Good.

  NOTES

  Seems the Establishment is talking up the Queen Mum, as it were. MPs, newspapers, rent-a-quote peers are thrashing it for all it’s worth, to make sure her lying-in-state and funeral aren’t as embarrassing as the not-quite-Alton-Towers-queues.

  Friday, April 5

  Went to the Eden Project. Wowee! Might take up gardening with Jules when we finally move house. Loved the long quote over the entrance about people who have got food to eat, shoes to wear, and a roof over their heads are among the richest 95 per cent in the world. Or 98 per cent. Or something like that.

  Saturday, April 6

  We were sitting in a café in Penzance when Pedro and Murdo told us about their friend – about our age – who had recently died of cancer. And we all wondered (Jules and I feigning it somewhat) why we worried about money – about running down the savings, not having a big enough retirement pot – when we were among the 95 or 98 per cent richest people in the world, and in the long run it didn’t matter a shit anyway. Just ask Milly Dowler’s parents. Family, friends, and love are all that really matter. And not missing the sport on the telly, Pedro and I agreed.

  Went to The Smugglers’ Somethingorother in the evening, as is our wont in Cornwall, and I had my usual Newlyn Cod. The piece of cod which passeth all understanding. Yum-mee. And then we drove back home so the driver – Pedro – could have a drink. And we all got pissed.

  Giggled a lot, but didn’t tell them.

  NOTES

  LCFC lost 1-0 at home to Man U, and are now officially relegated. We had all the chances but couldn’t score. Bassett must go.

  Monday, April 8

  And so back home.

  MLTJ. Very tender except for last final thrash.

  Wednesday, April 10

  Okay, so I was wrong – there was a huge turnout for the Queen Mum’s funeral, and a feeling of genuine warmth and affection. I watched a bit on TV in the pub, while having a quiet, solitary pint (I was in that sort of mood). Some of the more candid moments were very moving; some of the obsequiousness was nauseous. It was the latter that drove me back to the office. And the real world of the common people.

  I toyed with my first two pages of ‘Chained’, but I wasn’t in the mood for writing. Perhaps I should leave it for evenings; instead of writing this crap. Anyway, it all had to be put aside when I accepted a nice little job from a new client, CB Confectionery, which could be a nice little earner for Ms Balm. I made a gentle start on it.

  The real tragedy of the day came in the evening: David Beckham broke a bone in his foot – and may miss the World Cup. I say ‘broke a bone’; it was broken for him by a diabolical tackle from an Argentinean thug, nominally playing for Coruna.

  Email waiting for me from Pedro, in reply to my thank-you message:

  A short-sighted man goes to see an optometrist.

  The optometrist says, ‘You have to stop masturbating.’

  The guy says, ‘Why? Am I going blind?’

  The doctor says, ‘No, you're upsetting the other patients in the waiting room.’

  NOTES

  I despair for the Middle East. Another outrage today. Israel’s state bombers are no better than the Palestinian suicide bombers.

  Saturday, April 13

  We went shopping for nothing in particular – I thought it might help in Jules’s continuing Hormone Improvement Therapy – and came home with two original oil paintings of spectacular garden scenes to replace some ageing Parisian prints.

  Who knows – we might one day have the world’s foremost collection of Sol Kravitzes.

  Inspired by Mr Kravitz, we both pottered in the garden after a light lunch, just generally tidying up, weeding, etc.

  NOTES

  Everton 2 LCFC 2. Bassett hasn’t exactly gone, but he’s been kicked ‘upstairs’ apparently. Long live Micky Adams. This was his first game in charge and he played six lads under the age of 20. Go, Micky, go!

  Monday, April 15

  Well, what a turn-up at the office: Ronnie! My nephew turned up as I was making my half-past-tenses coffee. Haven’t actually seen him since Sarah’s wedding, and although it’s unlikely he has grown (he was 25 then) he seemed bigger. Handsomer, if there is such a word. More authoritative. Probably got something to do with the fact that he no longer looks like a 1960s hippy, but a smart modern young man with short hair , sharp suit and shirt, and fashionably tieless. Toting a briefcase!

  What a second turn-up: he has a proposition for me. Arnie has told him I may sell the business. But why sell it? Why not keep it in the family? Why not put in a manager? Or a partner even? I could still retire, Ronnie could look after the business, and I could still take a share of the profits as a sleeping partner/owner/consultant.

  Gobsmacked would be a major understatement. Before I could unsmack it, Ronnie had opened his briefcase and showed me his small portfolio: an even more unofficial fanzine for Leicester City Football Club than the official unofficial fanzine, and some design work he had done at art college on a Mac.

  ‘I’m a whiz on the Mac, Harry. Got my own IMac, Quark, Pagemaker, Photoshop, Word. I can design anything. I just need to learn something about proper printing. You can teach me. Just give me a week’s trial. Please, Harry. I’ve written approximately 225 job applications, and am getting absolutely nowhere. And I just love this work. I love it, Harry. Just never realised you could make money out of it.

  ‘And I'm learning Dreamweaver now so I can do websites. You've gotta have a website, Harry.’

  I took him home for lunch, and we discussed it with Jules. We agreed there was no time to lose – our two bidders needed a decision as soon as possible, so if Ronnie was serious he could stay the rest of the week for his trial. The spare bedroom was his.

  ‘Oh, Aunty and Uncle!’ he joked warmly. ‘Thank you, thank you. I’ll drive home, pack a bag, tell my girlfriend, be back by bedtime, and we’ll start work tomorrow.’

  ‘Bring her with you if you like,’ Jules said. ‘It’s a double bed.’

  ‘Oh – Aunty Julia! No sex before the big match. I’ll need all my concentration.’

  MLTJ. Quietly. Trying not to giggle.

  Wednesday, April 17

  We hadn’t been in touch with the kids for a few days so they were surprised but pleased when they dropped in this evening to find Ronnie there. Sarah and Mike arrived early, having played badminton (very gently, Sarah assured us) straight after work. The cousins had got on very well as youngsters, and little Ronnie
always used to joke that one day he’d marry Sarah, making her blush furiously.

  Just remembered – and just checked 2001 diary (but not there) – how he made a big show of ‘giving her away again’ at her wedding reception. Today it was her turn to tease him – about the ‘girlfriend’ none of the Oxon emigres had ever seen. Was she real, or had he invented her?

  They had just gone when Cory turned up, unexpectedly, to tell us his news (he had promised to keep us in the picture as we were his non-profit-making backers), so he told Ronnie as well: he had secured a long lease on prestige premises, to match his prestige motors, on the outskirts of Oxford, and he had closed his first deal in the offices of ECO (Elite Cars Oxford). It was an innovative multi-company deal to lease-hire luxury cars, as and when required, even at short notice, to executives of several companies on one of Oxford’s science parks. And that too was called ECO – Executive Charter Operation.

  What a bright boy I’ve reared. Sorry, we’ve reared.

  Anyway, the two lads then spent some time reminiscing and slightly less organising a night out. Ronnie wanted it at the end of the week, after his trial period at work was over (‘gotta keep your old man sweet, Cory’), and Cory wanted tomorrow night because he had a hot date on Friday night (‘gotta keep this one sweet, Ronnie’). In the end there was no choice – the old man is unsweetened.

  NOTES

  At last – a proper Budget! Well, at least a proper Labour Budget. Anyone who begrudges paying an extra one per cent of his income to save the NHS doesn’t deserve to use it. Bumped into Tom as we were both putting the wheeliebins out and he tried to make a crack about the ‘natural party of taxation’. I told him my Dad would have died of TB but for the National Health Service, and I would never have known him. And if rich, right-wing bastards had paid their proportionate dues we might have had a cure for senility by now – and I could get to know my Dad again. Tom didn’t reply.

  Thursday, April 18

  It’s almost one o’clock. Jules is sleeping fitfully after complaining again of aches, pains, and hot flushes all night. I threatened to drag her along to the surgery if she doesn’t ring tomorrow to make an appointment. She said she would.

  I’m wide awake, having napped in front of the telly for an hour. Cory and Ronnie have been out since, ooh …

  It’s quarter past one, and I have just been listening to Ronnie fumbling for a minute with the key to get in and then trying to get himself to bed without waking us up. He obviously doesn’t know I’m in the study and can hear every tiny sound.

  He bounced from banister to wall and went three steps up and two down, whispering, slurring, and singing softly to himself as he made the tortuous journey.

  ‘Shhhh … gotta keep the sweet old man … sweet … love him like an uncle … like an uncle, yes … mussn’t throw up … still on trial … for avunculaphilia … hee hee hee hee … it’s legal … try saying that sober … avun … avunc … avunclar … philia … ashley, lil drop of vomit improve stair carpet …. hee hee hee … tone it down lil bit … look out, Mr Branson … Cory’s gonna be new business Virgin … mazing lad … mazing … since my baby left me, found new place to dwell … down at the end of … Ox-ford-shy-er …’

  Ergo, they had spent most of the night in The Crown, listening to the finest jukebox in England. Stuffed full of old 45s from 1950s, ’60s, and ’70s.

  Should be an interesting last day of his trial. Back at Heartbreak Hotel.

  NOTES

  World Cup Sensation 1 – Sven Goran Eriksson has apparently been playing away with fellow Swede Ulrika Jonsson! Wonder which of the tabloids will opt for ‘England manager goes for twin strikers’?

  World Cup Sensation 2 – Beckham should be okay to captain England in Japan/South Korea.

  World Cup Sensation 3 – HH orders a huge widescreen telly in readiness that will almost fill the front room but tells JH that it will look great in our new big living room when we move into our bigger house and she doesn’t bat an eyelid but she may well do so when it’s delivered.

  Friday, April 19

  Poor old Ronnie. He looked like death warmed up the next morning; only not as good. We pretended not to notice when he came down for breakfast; Jules just asked him with a smile if he’d had a nice night. Nice night!? It’s what you ask a kid who’s been to the youth club, not on the piss with a making-up-for-lost-time cousin. But Ronnie didn’t even notice. He had obviously made up his mind to try to act normal and launched into a premeditated but severely under-rehearsed diatribe that came out as a low uneven groaning that was mostly inaudible and largely unintelligible. When asked what he wanted for breakfast, he shuddered, pleaded a headache (I think), and said he’d be okay with coffee (or was that coffin?) and some Paracetamols (or possibly paramedics).

  At the office I still pretended not to notice anything was awry, even when the Mac played up and its trouble-shooting robotic voice told him ‘It is not my fault …’ and Ronnie roared back, ‘Who’s fucking fault is it then!? – Nora Bleedin’ Batty’s!?’

  He started to come round mid morning. And then a sober, chirpy Cory popped in and asked him if he’d like to call in at The Crown after work and meet his date. There was no difficulty deciphering Ronnie’s reply. Both words of it.

  Jules called in, as arranged, just after one o’clock and offered to buy us both lunch. I locked up (for the day, although Ronnie didn’t know that) and we went next door. She bought Ronnie a plate of bangers-and-mash and a pint of Hair Of The Dog, which he munched and sipped his way through in the sure knowledge that he had blown it.

  So I told him, ‘You’ve been brilliant, Ronnie. The job is yours. Managing director suit you?’

  His reaction and almost instant recovery from hangover were a delight to watch.

  ‘I hereby give you a month’s notice,’ I added. ‘You have that month to pick my brains, and to help me sort out how we’ll work it financially, and then I’m taking early retirement and throwing you in the deep end. All right?’

  ‘Er, let me think about it…’ he said.

  NOTES

  Jules sees the Quack next Friday.

  Sunday, April 21

  Crap game of golf. Played like a hacker on the front nine – 10 points only! Slightly better 16 returning. Peter took the money.

  Late lunch at Greythorn courtesy of Sarah and Mike, with Ronnie – accompanied by girlfriend! – as guest of honour. He came back from Leicester having gathered his stuff to stay another week or so with us while he looks for his own place.

  ‘Got my overnight bag,’ he said. ‘Let me introduce her!’ and laughed uproariously. We all joined in. Mia wasn’t terribly amused, but she smiled a weary smile, as if she had heard the crack several thousand times before. Amazing looking girl: spiky blonde hair with lots of dark roots, huge almost hypnotic electric-blue eyes, and a jiggly bosom with a life of its own.

  Nice enough lady but a bit quiet (she obviously lets her appearance do the talking) so I tried to draw her into the table talk and told her all about Ronnie’s boyhood crush on Sarah. Probably not a good idea. Jules eventually caught my eye, via the ankle, which is still sore, and I realised that Mia, once again, wasn’t terribly amused. So I switched the subject to Ronnie and Cory getting out of their skull. Apparently Mia doesn’t drink much. I was about to get my coat when Jules said, ‘Weren’t you going to propose a toast, Sweetheart?’

  So I made sure everybody – even Mia – had some champagne, stood up, raised my glass, and dropped it. Well, it slipped out of my hand and dropped like a vertical torpedo just missing the edge of the table and landing still upright on my left foot. The champagne splattered all over my chinos and Ronnie’s jeans, with the odd drop hitting Jules’s ankle-kickers.

  Mia led the laughter.

  Now it’s nearly midnight and I can hear Ronnie snoring and picture Mia frowning in the bed the other side of this wall. And my fingers feel oddly tingly.

  Wonder if I’m developing RSI after so many years at a keyboard. Just as well
I’m getting out.

  NOTES

  Always thought the French were a rum baba lot – they proved it today by giving fascist Le Pen more votes than socialist Jospin in the Presidential election. Now it’s a straight vote between Le Pen and Chirac. The Frogs should be ashamed.

  Sven’s Italian fiancée Nancy isn’t chucking the old Swede on the compost heap. In fact, she’s fighting for him.

  Monday, April 22

  Wrote to say sorry to Barry Johnson and Sally Balm, but I’d made other arrangements. Particularly sorry for Sally; nice lady. Then went through typical Monday routine with Ronnie, and basically let him get on with the CB Confectionery job.

  Jules took Mia into Oxford for a little sight-seeing, and popped into a couple of estate agents; Jules to see what else was on offer around our way, and Mia to check out rented accommodation in the area. Jules advised her to go to north Oxfordshire, or possibly even Northamptonshire. Property prices are getting ridiculous in and around Oxford. Apparently they will have to rent until Mia can get a job down this way, and maybe then some. She has an intermittent job doing store fashion promotions and a little modelling, but their finances are still rocky. So they – well, Mia mainly, I gather – decided to keep on their bedsit in Leicester so she’ll be available for whatever work may come up in the next few weeks at least.

  It must be a nightmare for youngsters trying to get on the property ladder round here. We struggled to pay £30K for our modest abode all those years ago – it’s now worth more than £220K! Ridiculous. But somehow comforting. Only paper money, of course, until you come to move – and we may be doing that soon. So how much will we have to fork out for a little luxury? It doesn’t bear thinking about. Unless you’re a Lottery winner.