shutterstock_719310070On Thursday, I won the Euromillions.


I found out at lunchtime. I’d recently ordered an ebook on how to make your blog the dog’s proverbials – obvs – and it hadn’t arrived. So I went rummaging through my junk mail to see if it had landed in there by mistake.

As I sat at my desk, slurping from a sorry-looking carton of Cup-A-Slop (holy moly – diet food sucks so hard), I started scrolling. ‘For Lovers of Electronic Psychedelic Soul’…  ‘Is this London’s prettiest dining room?’…  ‘LAST CHANCE: Buy one get one FREE’…  ‘❄☀🛀📝💡✈😇👌’ (whatever that means) – hundreds of emails. Two-hundred, to be exact. Including the one with my ebook. And another that piqued my interest no end.

It was from the World Lottery Club.

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‘Hi Nadia,’ it read. ‘We have some exciting news about your purchase! To find out what it is and get more information about the draw, simply sign in to your account and click Check My Results.’

My heart stopped. Just for a moment.

I knew this day would come.

I ditched the Cup-A-Slop and shuffled forward in my swivel chair. By this point I’d already begun mentally drafting my resignation letter and running through my shopping list (first up: a Regency apartment in Brighton with spectacular sea views. Oooh, and a drum kit. And maybe one of those little dogs with the funny smushed-up faces. Maybe not).

I wondered whether I’d miss going to work every morning (clue: the answer is no). I wondered whether my lovely colleagues would miss having me around the place (clue: the answer is probably still no).

I wondered about the psychological impact of a sudden life of luxury; I wondered about how to apply for a parking permit for my yacht – you know. The little things.

I wondered whether I should even tell anyone. A jackpot doesn’t last very long when you’ve got every Tom, Dick and Harry lining up for their share. Perhaps I’d just keep the whole thing to myself and continue living like I’d always done. Perhaps I wouldn’t. Perhaps I’d just give it all to charity and pretend none of this ever happened.

I sat in front of that email for a small eternity.

I clicked the link.

I blinked a few times to make sure I hadn’t misread it (I hadn’t).

There it was, clear as day in garish green.

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Three pounds sixty. Three f***ing poxy pounds sixty! Announced with a bloody GRINNING EMOJI of all things, just to rub it in that little bit extra (I can think of a far more suitable symbol for such crappy news). Goodbye yacht permit. Goodbye smushy-faced dog. I sullenly finished my Cup-A-Slop and mentally filed my draft resignation letter in the shredder.

And what did I do with that life-changing windfall? The only reasonable thing a person in my position could do.

I went downstairs.

I bought the biggest bar of chocolate my “winnings” could buy.

And I let every mouthful mingle with the salt of my tears as I got back to the day job.

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