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

by Frank Rawlins

  Thursday, March 15

  Morning appointment with the smooth Mr Kinsey. I kept it as curt and formal as I could. Treatment will start straight away with the lowest-dose Levodopa. At least that’s sorted.

  Lovely spell of warm weather continued so after lunch I got the ride-on mower out of the shed for its first outing. It was primed and ready to go but it took a while for the engine to catch and even longer for me to get used to the controls. But great fun trying unsuccessfully to throw it around corners. Should be able to do everything in a quarter of an hour when I lose my L plates.

  Friday, March 16

  Right, this is my plan, painstakingly worked out in my head over the past fortnight. I’m ready to commit to paper; as a reference, as a resolution should I waver.

  MONDAYS: As now, housekeeping day. In harness with Mrs South. All the jobs that Jules used to do (without so much as a thank-you) including all the other admin bits – bills, standing orders, birthday cards, writing lists, ordering, maybe shopping or internet shopping.

  TUESDAY: Full day at work. Let Ronnie and Sally retain their co-director/boss status and responsibilities, but oversee in an avuncular manner befitting the founder of the firm and a printer with vast experience – the whippersnappers don’t know everything! Also, do what I can to cultivate contacts that may have slipped the net.

  WEDNESDAY: Another full day at work.

  THURSDAY: Half day at work, and – if he wants to – resume my lunches with Cory, and then go home. If weather is OK, keep on top of the garden; if foul, read or research (particularly PD).

  If my half a week’s work proves worth it, I will negotiate an appropriate wage with my co-directors.

  FRIDAY: Write. The novel can go fuck itself (if I haven’t finished one by now I probably never will); I am going to write TV scripts, which I think I can do in a fraction of the time. No excuses, no distractions. I will sit down after breakfast and write until I write something decent.

  SATURDAY: The kids; the little kids.

  SUNDAY: The kids; the little kids. (As and when I can, without becoming a nuisance; or if they are busy/on holiday/entertaining/etc.)

  Yes, I like it.

  Saturday, March 17

  Finally told Sarah and then Cory/Chrissy that I have Parkinson’s.

  I started at Littlekidsville mid-morning. Grace was in bed having a snooze; Sam was lying on the settee watching a DVD and trying to keep his eyes open (they had been up since 5.30!).

  Sarah was as gobsmacked as I had been at her momentous news (exactly a month ago), but she gathered herself quickly as she saw how composed I was. I went through the ins and outs of PD, the treatment I was about to start, and the possible long-term prognosis. I also told her my plan of action, which she liked.

  We hugged, and I made my excuses (Cory/Chrissy).

  It was the first time I had seen Chrissy for weeks. She had only just got up (heavy night with the girls, apparently) and was still slopping around in her pyjamas, but she looked absolutely stunning. A very sexy lady. Isn’t my boy lucky!

  She showered and dressed in minutes, while Cory ground some coffee beans and then made a mega-strong brew that would have woken a Columbian or two. And then I told them.

  Cory was very grounded, outwardly at least, and made some very PI jokes (‘Now you really will be able to say “I don’t drink much – I spill most of it”.’); Chrissy was distraught. She was in tears almost immediately, and both Cory and I hugged her and reassured her that it wasn’t the end of my world. Then I went through the PD spiel.

  They wanted me to stay to lunch, but I needed some time and space. And some non-family contact. I went to The Hat, sank a couple with the lads, smoked two big cigars, and walked home via the chippy. Then settled down to a rugby feast as the Six Nations came to an incredibly exciting climax. Three televised matches in a row: Ireland beat Italy, France beat Scotland, Wales beat England (shit!), and France took the title (merde!)

  Sunday, March 18

  NOTES

  TV told me this morning that fun-loving Freddie Flintoff, having scored a duck in England’s opening game of the Cricket World Cup in St Lucia, went on a bender with several other players, thought it would be a lark to commandeer a pedalo in the early hours, and almost drowned himself some way off the shore when it capsized. He had to be rescued, and immediately lost his job as vice-captain. Good.

  The chastened Freddie promised to give 110 per cent for the rest of the tournament. I never had him down as a thick bastard who doesn’t know that it’s impossible to give more than 100 per cent. But you just never know, do you?

  Even more amazingly, the Irish cricket team beat Pakistan by three wickets!

  Monday, March 19

  Greeted by a thin layer of snow this morning, but unlike the February deluge it was soon gone, and there was no great outpouring of snow euphoria.

  I went into work pm – chilly but sunny – and went through my now well-drilled PD speech again with Ronnie and Sally. They were full of concern about the PD but I got the impression they were ambivalent, to say the least, about my full-time return to part-time work. They have obviously got used to doing things their own way and don’t want me coming in and throwing my weight about. Well, interfering, at least.

  Without mentioning this, I assured them I would just take a back seat, help them where I could, and only pull rank if I feel there’s something vital to the business that needs attention.

  I could see they were still a tad wary.

  NOTES

  Pakistan cricket coach Bob Woolmer has been found dead in his hotel room. Must have drunk himself to oblivion after being beaten by the Paddies.

  Tuesday, March 20

  Email awaiting me at office from Cory:

  Good luck in your new career!

  Cheeky monkey.

  First time I have seen Davina, our new shop assistant/trainee Mac operator, in action for any length of time. She’s excellent. Only 20 but so confident with people and with her own ability.

  I helped her with some layout work, which she appreciated. I don’t know what she was expecting – an old dodderer obviously – because she was very impressed by my skills. And so she ought to be. It took a long while – and fair dollops of intelligence and flair – to get that good.

  Am I getting paranoid? I got the impression that Ronnie and Sally were relieved that I devoted so much time to Davina and let them get on with their work.

  I was pretty knackered by 5.30 but I left with the satisfaction of a good day’s work well done. I had forgotten how much I used to enjoy design work, before seemingly endless repetition, and then events, knocked all the fun out of it.

  Wednesday, March 21

  Email awaiting me from Cory:

  How did the first day go, New Boy? Bosses alright or did they give you a hard time?

  My itsy-bitsy little press decided to start playing up, issuing some frightening and expensive-sounding noises, so I spent most of the day in the abattoir with Sally. She has learned most of all there is to know about an ‘old-fashioned’ press, but she doesn’t know this one like I do. I have cosseted it from a baby and I know its every whim and mood. Like Davina, I think Sal too was impressed by the old fart.

  I should have come back to work sooner.

  NOTES

  10.30pm.

  Gordon Brown bows out as the Chancellor (apparently) by knocking 2p in the £ off income tax. Now that almost sounds like a proper Labour Budget.

  Thursday, March 22

  My half a week’s work left me knackered so I was happy to knock off at 1pm, collect a pile of goodies from Prêt A Takeaway, and share lunch with Cory; sadly no Chrissy. Quiet but enjoyable as he brought me up to date with ECO.

  NOTES

  So – Gordon Brown’s Budget giveaway is not quite what it seems. According to a financial expert on TV, more than 3,000,000 single/childless low earners, currently on the starter 10p income tax rate abolished by Brown, will be worse off when it all comes into effect next
April.

  What sort of Labour Budget is that, Brown? Making the poor poorer while your 2p off makes the rich richer. Bastard.

  What has happened to our political parties? Labour are acting like selfish greedy-bastard Tories, Ming ‘Mr Charisma’ Campbell sounds like an old socialist leader, and Toryboy David Macaroon is trying to make out the Eton Brigade invented the welfare system.

  Soon the Official Monster Raving Loony Party will be the only sensible party left in the UK.

  And another thing, Brown – I’ll be a pensioner soon. What the fuck have you done for pensioners in the past 10 years? Given the older, poorer ones a couple of means-tested benefits – that’s about it. How about a decent basic pension? Or does that sound a bit socialist to you? Tosser.

  Friday, March 23

  First Script Writing Day. Well …

  Spent most of the day researching stuff on tinternet, looking for ideas for a TV script; no good just plunging in without the proper subject. Couldn’t even make my mind up whether it should be a sit-com or a drama. My writing naturally veers towards comedy, or at least it used to; events have changed me and it. Gave up mid-afternoon and pottered in the garden.

  Email from Cory:

  Good to get the ECO Lunch Club going again. Chrissy was most upset she missed it. I’ve had to promise not to send her too far afield next Thursday. Have good weekend. Love, Me.

  NOTES

  Police in Jamaica say Bob Woolmer was murdered! Strangled in his hotel room by unknown assailant/s. Match fixing has been mentioned.

  Ah, cricket. Such a pleasant, genteel, sporting, middle-class affair.

  Saturday, March 24

  So – personal bombshells come in threes as well.

  Well, not so much a bombshell as a nightmare that could run and run.

  Arnie is at last getting to grips with emails and tinternet – watch out nation, watch out me! We have occasionally exchanged two-line missives about family events, so I was surprised to open an email that was ‘War And Peace’ by his standards. But not half as surprised – shocked even – by the contents. This is the start of it, verbatim, spelling and punctuation mistakes and all (to get the full flavour):

  Dear Aitch,

  I am writeing this, rather than phoneing; so you can digest it properly. I have been doing some research which has taken me a long while and I know that you either did’nt donate what was left of your jackpot to LCFC, or if you did you will be getting your investment back through the sale of LCFC shares to Mr Mandaric.

  Do’nt be alarmmed, I do’nt want a hand-out or a loan, I would like you to make another investment, with me; in a sure fire winner, one I know that you will appreciate. Its a syndicate who play the National Lottery, the Euromillions lottery and the Irish lottery; and have an amazing return by haveing the power to cover a huge spread of numbers. We even get to play for free most of the time. I enclose details at the end, have a good read and let me know what you think, then give me a call.

  If you are’nt interrested I suppose I will have to have a word with John and Jayne, Jennifer, perhaps Caroline, see if they are interrested. They obviously wo’nt have your buying power. Do’nt suppose youd want me to mention LCFC to them. Right?

  The bastard! My brother is trying to blackmail me. I think I know how to handle it, but who knows how Arnie will react?

  The first thing to do is to ignore him. See how long he’ll sweat before he cracks and has to call me to find out if I’ve even read his email.

  Must tell him about spell-check some time.

  NOTES

  A group of 15 British sailors and marines in two rubber boats have been captured in The Gulf by Iran. They say the sailors were trespassing in Iranian waters. The UK says they were on UN duties in Iraqi waters.

  Sunday, March 25

  Summer time begins, thank God. Spent the extra hour of daylight just walking round the estate, enjoying the daffs (the early dwarf ones are almost over already!), plucking a weed here and there; then sitting, well wrapped up, on the patio with a huge glass of wine and a rollie. Just looking, enjoying, thinking. A million things, not one of which I can remember. Arnie probably, and the kids.

  This followed a long lunch with the brood at Cory’s. All of us, plus Maureen. Chrissy did one of her Italian specials and we had great fun as Samuel insisted on trying to eat his spaghetti without it being cut up. Grace, who insisted on having hers cut up, couldn’t stop giggling as Sam slurped and splashed and splattered sauce everywhere. This only spurred Sam on to even sillier slurping. He loves making people laugh; especially Grace.

  We eventually calmed him down, and Maureen showed great patience in trying to teach him how to wrap the spaghetti round his fork.

  Good day.

  I do know what I’m thinking. I’m just trying not to think it.

  NOTES

  One of the captured sailors in Iran is a married mum with a child apparently; Faye Somebody. This doesn’t cut much ice with the Iranians – pictures on TV show Iranian protesters with placards demanding all 15 sailors be executed.

  What nice people.

  Do they think we were trying to invade their country with 14 men and one woman in two rubber boats!

  Thursday, March 29

  Email from Arnie:

  Not heard back from you, so just wandered if youd not seen origonal, or accidently deleted it. Repeated below just in case.’

  He’s realised – or more likely, Mags has reminded him – that this might not be a good time to call me with trivia like blackmail. Otherwise he would have rung.

  NOTES

  Now Iran is parading Faye Turney on TV with an obviously coerced admission that she and her colleagues were trespassing in Iranian waters. Do we believe a word of it? Do we fuck.

  And the really gruesome news … A director of Barclays, the aptly named Bob Diamond, has received a £23million bonus. Hours later we learn that another 200,000 British children have slipped below the poverty line.

  What a stupid bloody world we live in.

  Friday, March 30

  Another day’s research. I have whittled script ideas down to:

  * Trials and tribulations of a lottery winner (old hat? but something I know about)

  * PD/Alzheimer’s sufferer’s battle with himself and the NHS (galanthamine? again something I know about, but could send the nation into terminal depression)

  * Two people called Sam (Samuel and Samantha) whose names get mixed up at an airport check-in, they row, they meet abroad, they talk, they get on, they row, they fight, they fall in love …

  ‘Sam And Sam.’

  I quite like it. Full-blown sit-com or a comedy drama?

  Sunday April 1

  The kids were with Mike and the Floozy, Cory and Chrissy in Scotland, Ronnie and Sally in Leicester, so Sarah took me out to lunch at The Hat; she insisted.

  For the first time since 2003 our April Fools conversation and thoughts weren’t totally dominated by Jules, the unlucky black cat, and Stanley Archer. Neither of us cried. We smiled a lot and laughed a little. Wednesday may not be so easy.

  There’s something else I can’t stop thinking about – Bob Diamond’s millions (and my comparative Lottery pittance) and those children in poverty. I keep coming back to the thought that despite my great heartbreaks I have so much. Two special kids, two special grandchildren. A thriving business. A wonderful home and garden. Most of my marbles.

  Which leads me on to the thought – I really should do something useful with what’s left of my dosh. Only then will I have the right to call people like Mr Bob Diamond sad pathetic greedy bastards.

  Sorry, Arnie.

  NOTES

  Now apparently Faye Turney is writing letters to the House of Commons telling MPs why our entire foreign policy is wrong. All off her own bat. Without any coercion from her captors. Oink oink, flap flap.

  Tuesday April 3

  Terrific day at work. I think.

  Good order book, lots to do, steady shop trade. We were all kept b
usy throughout the day, and mutually decided a drink afterwards in The Half Moon was the least we deserved. Mutual? I soon realised Ronnie and Sally had planned it anyway. They had a proposal – nothing concrete yet, just a few ideas and some preliminary figures – for me. A second shop. Maybe in Oxford, or Banbury, or perhaps Witney. The two presses were running under capacity; the extra work would easily cover all the extra overheads AND leave a healthy extra profit. They made it sound good.

  We ended up joking about the start of an empire.

  The only thing is, thinking about it now, I know a couple of local firms that have gone bust by over-stretching themselves. But then again, I am 60. My day is nearly done; this is their future. But then again again, if it becomes a family ‘empire’ it could one day be Sam or Grace’s future – who knows?

  NOTES

  There are grandparents and then there are grandparents. The grandmother of little Ellie, who was mauled to death by a pitbull-type terrier, has been charged with manslaughter and possession of the drug diamorphine. Her uncle was charged with possession of a dangerous dog.

  What a paragon I am.

  Wednesday April 4

  7am.

  I need to do this before I do anything else. To face it and then get on with my day and my life.

  Today is the first anniversary of Jules’s death. A year on from the day when pneumonia finished off what the cat and Stanley Archer couldn’t quite manage.

  The end – after two more extensions of that awful life-or-death deadline – of three years of agony. Anguish, grief, trauma, whatever the right word is. The end of three years of living in limbo.