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

by Frank Rawlins

  When I said they shouldn’t have, they said my – and Jules’s – generosity had paid for it really, and by clubbing together they had hardly noticed it. That included the two new honorary members of my immediate family – Chrissy had brought along Maureen, and Sally had enticed Kim up from London, where she is now working as an estate agent and looking more catwalk than Goth.

  FR and MJ were next, with a big bottle of bubbly, despite my stricture about no presents, except for immediate family. The Leicester mob turned up 10 minutes later in a hired minibus with a hired driver (I was happy to pay), each family unit bearing a small but welcome plant for the garden.

  Even Arnie hugged me – very briefly and very jokily, of course – but I appreciated it.

  The only thing missing was my far-flung friends. But we have organised a long-weekend piss-up for the summer – when we’ll all be 60!

  I’m nodding off here. Finish tomorrow.

  Monday, January 29

  My Almost Sixtieth Birthday lunch seemed to go on all afternoon. There was food and drink in the kitchen and the living-dining room, and people just came and went as they pleased. It was relaxed and amiable. I even showed most of my visitors round the garden (not too cold, dry and brisk), a few at a time.

  The half-finished, half-inside-half-outside swimming pool was the star attraction for the Leicester mob. One or two didn’t seem to know the story (thanks to an amazingly co-operative pool company, it will be finished when the grandchildren have learned to swim, because I’m not risking another tragedy) so I told it several times to different people. Only Arnie came up with a reply that surprised me: ‘Still got a bit of dosh then, Bruv.’ He did it with a smile and a laugh, and then added uproariously, ‘Any you don’t want, you know where to send it.’

  I shook my head in a ‘trust you to bring it up’ sort of way, but it had no affect.

  ‘Just don’t give it all away to the cats’ home,’ he laughed. Then realised – too late. ‘Shit, the dogs’ home, I mean. Christ, sorry, mate. It was only meant to be a joke. You know I would never …’

  This time I nodded in a sort of ‘I believe you – thousands wouldn’t’ sort of way.

  I just concentrated on getting slowly pissed after that.

  It could have been worse.

  The Oxon contingent stayed to the bitter end. They all helped with the clearing-up, and Maureen made several pots of coffee as we all wound down.

  I didn’t cry. Not even when they left. I just had another coffee, accompanied by a large Bailey’s (couldn’t be arsed to dig out the Cointreau), and wrote until the drink and my pent-up emotions wiped me out.

  Wednesday, January 31

  I AM NOW SIXTY!

  Jesus, that sounds old.

  I can now get free prescriptions and later in the year I may get the winter fuel allowance. Don’t know about the bus pass yet.

  Couldn’t let the actual day pass by unnoticed so I did a little tour with a box full of cream cakes – the Abattoir, ECO, Kidsville – and drank lots of tea. Then I went to The Hat for lunch and a beer. Not one Usual Suspect in, so I chatted with Don and then Denise for a while, had a second beer and a good cigar, and went home. Sober.

  Then I cried my eyes out.

  For me and for Jules. We should have been in the sun somewhere, laughing and joking, making love. Enjoying another milestone together.

  Christ, how many more milestone dates do I have to go through before I can just smile at the warm memories? Like I do with Mum and Dad.

  Bollocks.

  NOTES

  This Home Office/John Reid never-ending debacle would be funny if it wasn’t for the lunatics roaming free on our streets. And that’s just the Civil Servants.

  Thursday, February 1

  Nepotism in action – I’m all for it. Not only did I see the new neurologist today – the smooth Mr Kinsey – he examined me and my SLF and SLT, in fact all my limbs and joints, and then whisked me through for an MRI scan with an MRS (something to do with spectroscopy, whatever that is).

  It took most of the morning and left me feeling drained. I said hello at the shop, where everything seemed to be fine, made my excuses, and came home.

  Drank the best part of a bottle of red through the afternoon/evening and smoked several rollies.

  Feel fucking awful. Going to bed.

  Friday, February 2

  Non-alcohol day. Just one rollie.

  Now I’m beginning to sound like Bridget fucking Jones.

  Shit and fuck and bollocks.

  A foul-tempered, foul-mouthed Bridget Jones.

  God, I must do something to shake me out of this shithole I’m in.

  Stop going on about it, for a fucking start.

  What a good idea. I’ll make Feb a non-writing month. I do enough soul -searching without writing about it.

  NOTES

  Except for the Notes, maybe. I’ll want to remember gems like this:

  A UN report by the world’s leading scientists has confirmed that climate change is happening, and that mankind is the ‘very likely’ cause. The temperature is likely to go up by about 4C by the end of the century, and sea levels by 43 cms, flooding chunks of the world. America said the report was ‘valuable’ but rejected mandatory controls. That’s all right then.

  Fucking twats.

  Saturday, February 3

  NOTES

  Wow – what a difference a coach makes. Suddenly England look like a rugby team again. Dare I say world beaters? Course it helps to have Jonny Wilkinson and Jason Robinson back in the team. What a pair of absolute stars; they ripped Scotland to shreds. 42-20. Wonderful. If only Freddie Flintoff and Co could show some of that passion …

  Thursday, February 8

  All right, just a quickie – woke up to six or seven inches of snow this morning. It’s so rare these days it has generated a sort of fun-filled eupohoria, with snowmen, sledging and ski-ing pics filling the papers and on TV.

  Friday, February 9

  NOTES

  Richard Branson has teamed up with Al Gore – can he really be American? – to launch a competition to tackle climate change: a 25million-dollar prize to the first person or group to come up with a workable solution for removing large amounts of greenhouse gases from the atmosphere.

  Now let me think. How many vacuum cleaners are there in Great Britain …?

  Sunday, February 1

  NOTES

  Game of two halves. Rugby boys back down to earth yesterday as they only just manage to overcome Italy’s better game plan. But amazingly Flintoff and Co clinch one-day final against Oz.

  Tuesday, February 13

  NOTES

  Hallelujah! Milan Mandaric, the saviour of Pompey FC, has bought out LCFC for £25million and pledged to have them back in the Premiership within three years.

  The only down side is … Arnie is bound to phone any day and ask what this means for my ‘investment’ in Leicester.

  Saturday, February 17

  I swore it would take a thunderbolt to break my vow of diaristic silence. One arrived on my doorstep this morning in the shape of my daughter. Strangely, on her own.

  MIKE HAS LEFT HER FOR ANOTHER WOMAN!

  I couldn’t believe it when she told me. How could he? How could he do that to my beautiful girl? How could he do that to two beautiful, wonderful children?

  How the fuck does anybody abandon their children? I just can’t imagine it. All right – so far, ‘abandon’ is a bit strong, but I couldn’t do it.

  And I couldn’t believe that nice, dependable, laid-back Mike had cheated on Sarah. How could he? Mike, you stupid bastard. So an alcohol problem wasn’t your only dark secret.

  I don’t think I’ll ever be able to talk to him again.

  This has obviously been evolving over a long period, because A, Sarah was very calm when she told me about it, and B, all the plans and arrangements seem to have been made and agreed.

  Mike has already left and moved in with his floozy (‘don’t call her that,
Dad!’ said my special daughter), some sports centre lifeguard-cum-nymphet called Erica, and he will ‘have access’ to the kids every second weekend, roughly, depending on other family commitments. Starting today, because Sarah didn’t want them around when she talked to me (and Cory pm). And besides, she wanted some time to herself to mentally adjust to a life and a house with one less person. And maybe have a cry on her own now the unthinkable has become reality.

  I was just starting to take some of it in when Sarah added, almost as an afterthought (it certainly hadn’t occurred to me), ‘Oh, and he doesn’t want any of our Lottery money.’

  I think my reply was, ‘I should fucking think not.’

  We hugged more than once in the way we used to when she was my little girl.

  Sunday, February 18

  Sarah came round for lunch; I insisted. She was okay (and duly impressed by my lamb cutlets). But it nearly broke my heart when she said, ‘I’ve got used to sleeping on my own. It’s been quite a few weeks.’

  I drove her to the floozy’s, in her car; I insisted. It was some miserable little flat in the Kings Farm area. But I couldn’t bring myself to go up the path with her; God knows what I would have said to Mike. I just watched Sarah go up the path, the children arrive on the threshold, turn presumably to kiss their errant father (hidden behind the door), and then charge down the path, Sam suddenly spotting me and calling, ‘Granddad, granddad!’

  I spent an hour or so at Littlekidsville, as I must call it now, and helped Sarah get them to bed. Read Gruffalo to each separately, doing lots of silly voices, which they loved. Not one of us mentioned ‘Erica’. The kids seemed to know it was off-limits.

  Then I walked home. Knackered but a mite happier than yesterday.

  Saturday, February 24

  Is there no end to this fucking rain? No wonder we all got excited about the snow; seems the rest of the month has been wet and grey.

  NOTES

  Come back, Sir Clive Woodward! England’s fragile form and confidence was brutally exposed by Ireland in a 43-13 massacre at Croke Park.

  Ignoramus that I am (my school history stopped at roughly the same time as Queen Victoria’s heart), I didn’t know a thing about the Bloody Sunday atrocities by English troops at Croke Park back in the dark days. The Paddies’ welcome to the old enemy was exemplary – as was their rugby.

  England’s win over Scotland was put into perspective by Italy’s amazing 17-37 win at Murrayfield. Jocks committed rugby suicide in the first seven minutes.

  Sunday, February 25

  Dad’s birthday. I drank a toast to his memory at The Hat. Sarah and the kids were with Cory and Chrissy. I thought it best to let them have a day to themselves.

  NOTES

  Well, bless my cotton socks – Network Rail have admitted faulty points, shoddy workmanship, and a backlog of track inspections were to blame for the horrific train derailment in Cumbria on Friday night (amazingly, only one fatality). TV news said same thing caused Potter Bar crash five years ago. It seems nothing has changed. Useless bastards.

  Thursday, March 1

  Thunderbolt? What fucking thunderbolt!?

  Pah, I spit in the face of thunderbolts. They’re ten a penny these days.

  I suppose I’ve had a feeling for a long time that this one would eventually roll up and smash me across the fingers. My poor SLF. They were just the first symptom.

  It’s hard to say it – or write it; a bit like cancer. But here goes: I HAVE PARKINSON’S DISEASE.

  And those bastards at the hospital could have diagnosed it several years ago.

  It could be worse; it could be Alzheimer’s. Either way, I could easily end up a terrible burden to the kids, and I’m not letting that happen.

  The smooth Mr Kinsey broke the news this morning. And took the first force of my anger. But he didn’t seem too concerned that I was finally diagnosed with rheumatoid arthritis just over two years ago and have been treated accordingly since.

  ‘The trouble is,’ he said with a smile that I wanted to ram down his throat, ‘you are one of the 30 per cent of Parkinson’s sufferers who have no noticeable tremor. At present.’

  By the time he had finished with his platitudes and excuses, I did have a tremor – I was trembling with fucking rage. I pointed out that the hospital had cocked up my tests not once but twice, and had seemingly accepted without murmur my GP’s later and somewhat tentative diagnosis of rheumatoid arthritis.

  ‘Although Parkinson’s is a degenerative disease,’ he continued as if I hadn’t uttered a word, ‘the onset of symptoms and the first signs of deterioration can be so gradual that diagnosis is extremely difficult. Even so, despite all these difficulties, only a very tiny percentage of sufferers experience a prolonged delay in diagnosis.’

  And when I fulminated on about taking expert advice on what this delay could mean for my long-term (or possibly short-term) prognosis, darkly hinting without spelling it out that I would have to consider suing the bastards, he just continued smoothly on.

  ‘Of course, GPs with no specialist knowledge in this area often find it difficult to differentiate between the symptoms of Parkinson’s Disease and other conditions such as rheumatoid arthritis.’

  ‘It was this fucking hospital that confirmed the diagnosis of RA!’ I yelled.

  That shut the bastard up.

  Friday, March 2

  11pm.

  I have spent the day mooching, pottering, churning it all over in my brain. Non-stop, it seems, with barely a minute’s respite. How do I tell everybody? When do I tell everybody? What will I do about work? I was part-time till Jules’s accident; since then it’s been occasional-veering-to-seldom part-time work. I don’t take a wage, but I do take my share of the profits (so far reasonably healthy). Do I throw myself back into it, rather than vegetate and allow this thing to take over my life? Do I give up work altogether and throw myself into researching and fighting Parkinson’s? Like I did for Jules’s coma. Can I face all that again? God, it was wearing.

  But I don’t think I’ve got much choice.

  I’m not giving in to the fucker.

  Friday, March 9

  Blah blah blah blah blah.

  Well, I had to write something – I’ve got withdrawal symptoms after a week’s moping.

  Goodnight, Jules. Love you.

  Saturday, March 10

  After a hard day’s Googling…

  NOT A LOT OF PEOPLE KNOW THIS,1:

  Possibly the world’s most famous Parkinson’s sufferer, former boxer Muhammad Ali was, after disagreement among several doctors, eventually diagnosed as having Pugilistic Parkinson’s Syndrome. This is also known as dementia pugilistica, or boxer’s syndrome, or punch-drunk syndrome. Enough said.

  Maybe I should pop over to Abingdon and bop Dermot Stone a few more times. Might make it a tad easier to bear …

  NOT A LOT OF PEOPLE KNOW THIS, 2:

  Possibly the world’s second most famous Parkinson’s sufferer, actor Michael J Fox didn’t publicly disclose his condition for seven years after the initial diagnosis of Young-Onset Parkinson’s in 1991. It was then that he launched the Michael J Fox Foundation For Parkinson’s Research. He is an advocate of embryonic stem cell research. Wonder what he thinks about George W. Bush and his Redneck Party?

  Don’t think I should wait quite that long before coming out.

  Knackered; more tomorrow.

  Sunday, March 11

  NOT A LOT OF PEOPLE KNOW THIS, 3:

  A handful of PD patients on dopamine agonist treatment – a standard therapy for many patients – have turned into compulsive gamblers, a US study revealed in 2003. Previous studies reported that the treatment, again in a handful of cases, resulted in distinct changes in sexual behaviour – usually a marked increase in libido – and even sexual orientation.

  If I start buying scatter cushions, somebody kill me.

  NOT A LOT OF PEOPLE KNOW THIS, 4:

  Daffodils may be vital for the future of thousands of PD sufferers (
moderately severe cases) and other disorders of the brain such as Alzheimer’s, schizophrenia, and Tourette’s Syndrome. Daff bulbs contain a ready supply of the plant alkaloid galanthamine, which has proved effective in treating dementia. The synthetic versions are so expensive that those nice people from NICE have apparently ruled it is too expensive to treat Alzheimer’s patients on the NHS. I think that’s the gist of it. Must research some more.

  What do you reckon, Jules? Can I redesign your redesign to make a field of daffs at the back? But not early dwarf ones.

  Ironic or what?

  NOT A LOT OF PEOPLE KNOW THIS, 5:

  Parkinson’s is not just about trembling uncontrollably (unless controlled by drugs). It can affect the intellect – and dementia will occur at some time in up to about 40 per cent of cases; some quite mild but up to 15-20 per cent quite severe.

  Oh, fuck.

  Oh, Dad … my worst nightmare. Your living death. Please not that. Anything but that.

  Wednesday, March 14

  NOTES

  Leicester 1 Leeds 1 at the Walker Stadium last night. And apparently the current Leeds manager – a certain otiose little person – got merciless stick as Leeds’ slide towards relegation and the oblivion of Division One continued.

  Oh, what a shame.