Oh, to be a Winner!

Every Sunday morning, Mr Parsnip and I lie in our bed, smoking (disgusting habit, I know), drinking coffee (me) and tea (him) and speculating as to whether we have actually won the National Lottery this weekend. We had a massive dreaming session about it this Sunday, which continued even in the pub where we went for lunch. We hold off checking the numbers for hours, preferring to expound at length as to what we would do with our millions, which cars we would buy, what dreams we would realise, whether we would move house, and if we would put #1 into a High Security Boarding School from which she would never escape.

Our dreams this weekend were as follows:

Mr Parsnip:
1. To give up work and open his own photography business. He is a budding amateur photographer and, indeed, you can see some of his work on Words and Pictures but he is rubbish at keeping it up-to-date despite my nagging him, so don't hold your breath...
2. To buy some doozy sports car (he is fast approaching the 19th anniversary of his 21st birthday, so I guess this is some mid-life crisis thing in the hope that he can pick up blonde babes with his fanny magnet)
3. To get an all-singing, all-dancing camera which does all but set up the shots, complete with dirty big lenses and what-nots.

Agnes:
1. To open an Eating Disorders Clinic for adults in Cheshire
2. To have a Jeep Grand Cherokee (I still miss mine from my Oman days!)
3. To have an unlimited account with Karen Millen and Red or Dead
4. To send #1 daughter to a High Security Boarding School from which she cannot escape.

Strangely, what we both then agreed upon was that we wouldn't necessarily want to up-sticks and move to some Country Pile in the Home Counties. We'd be quite happy in our 3-bed semi, complete with new conservatory...but we would do something about the shops which border the rear of our property.

The row of shops consists of: hairdresser; Post Office; hardware store; pharmacy; chip shop; off license and general grocery store. The rear of the shops, atop which sit flats, is seen from our bedroom window and it is a total eyesore. There are enormous ventilation pipes climbing up the brickwork; ugly battered outhouses with felt roofing peeling off, derelict fences, and the ubiquitous Carling Black Label cans litter the unadopted road which separates us. It is a bit of a torrid mess.


Unfortunately, where there is Carling Black Label (a very cheap lager, favoured by the IQ-challenged 'yoof' in this area), there are idiots and trouble-makers. The first summer I spent here, I was on the phone to the police that often they started dropping in for a cup of tea and a natter, on the off-chance I wasn't doing anything. One particular night was memorable whence I had just come out of the shower and had donned only my knickers. The yoof had entered my garden and were terrorising the bunnies, Lambert and Butler. I literally *hung* out of the window, topless and shameless, and squawked out a chorus of expletives and profanities, whilst threatening to castrate them. The girls were mortified. But only by the fact that I was sans bra...The final straw came when I had to call out the Fire Brigade as the rotten little pukes had decided to set fire to the rear of the hardware store where they keep the gas bottles. It took two big, burly firemen to give me a hug to stop me from crying and sobbing in frustration...I guess I put the hand-wringing hysterics on a little bit as one of them really was rather dishy! (I was wearing clothes by this stage, I hasten to add...)

So, I galvanised myself after that, and instead of leaving matters to the police, took matters into my own hands and petitioned our local MP. Actually, I bombarded him with letters of complaint. And within a week, I received a letter on House of Commons letter-headed paper (I must confess to feeling the fear of God when I first saw the portcullis and chains logo on the rear of the envelope and thought someone had finally caught up with me from my own mis-spent youth...) and our MP promised me action. And indeed, action happened, much to my relief and chuffed-ness! We received a nightly patrol, and the scum-bag element moved on to pastures new.

Only once after that was there any trouble and I unfortunately didn't witness it, but our former Post Master, Geoff, told me about it in gleeful detail. It seems a gang of snots were causing trouble on the common which fronts the shops and one of the locals reported it to the police. Within minutes, a squad car pulled up and a rather enormous officer unfolded himself from his tiny patrol vehicle. The main protagonist of the trouble, considering himself a tough guy, decided to take on the officer.

Bad Move.

The officer spoke quietly into his walkie-talkie and minutes later, three more vehicles came whizzing round the corner. The youth decided to run for it.

Another Bad Move.

Four strapping policemen rugby-tackled him, laid him flat, sat on his head and made him promise To Stop Being A Bad Lad...The funniest part, according to Geoff, who had experienced it all, was how the lad had to take a pushchair, replete with his own child, and stalk off home. Big Man: teaching his child all she needs to know in life. I didn't think that was especially funny, although I could see the irony. I found it sad that ill-breeding breeds ill-breeding. Why aren't there sterilisation programmes for people like this?

So, we would buy out the off-license, and while we are at it, we would get rid of the chippy, as that is almost as magnetic for the yoof. There's nothing better (and more nutritious - to them) than a tray of chips with curry sauce and eight cans of Carling. That's a gor-may meal, innit?

In their place, we would install a traditional butcher and a traditional fishmonger. We would offer the girls who work in the off-license (who all, embarrassingly, know me by name and know exactly what I am going in for *ahem*) any jobs, with training, if they so wish. Mr P reckons Cheryl, who probably clocks in at around 22 stone, would be great as the butcher. She's dry as the desert, plain-speaking and doesn't suffer fools. She could cart sides of cow round as though they were feather pillows, believe me. I have seen her man-handle trouble-makers from the shop as though they were naughty toddlers.

Kerry, who has a smile and a chat for everyone - and actually manages to talk to the yoof sensibly and amiably, would probably be great serving behind the counter. She'd have the old dears flocking in for their 1/2lb of silverside and 'nice bit of fillet for me tea'.

Trish could be the fishmonger. I like Trish - a lot! She rarely smiles, is always sardonic, never has a good word to say for anyone, but makes me roar laughing with her tales, always delivered totally deadpan. I could just imagine her whalloping a dead haddock onto the slab and gutting it in front of me, bearing a face of total disdain...

The only girl I would find difficult to place is Diane, who always looks so sad, talks in such a quiet voice it is difficult to know what she is saying, and has too many tales of woe for one her age. I think I would just give her a few thousand and tell her to treat herself, pay off her mortgage and get rid of the spongeing control freak she is living with.

Having a decent butcher would probably annoy Eddie, our grocer/general store owner. He offers local bacon, ham, sausages and black pudding which he sells for exorbitant prices. He's a curmudgeon is Eddie, and I get the feeling he's a wee bit sweet on me! He was moaning and miserable the other week, so I told him I would bring him in some of my fresh baking to cheer him up. I returned, replete with coffee cake and lemon sponge. He turned pale, called me to the rear of the shop, and took it from me as though I was passing him a parcel of heroin. I then realised that he was as terrified of his scowling wife as I am...Since then, he has hinted more than once, that it is 'a good job we are both married, as I am having all sorts of thoughts now...'. He actually had me blushing dreadfully two days ago, so flirtatious was he. And unfortunately, Agnes Mildew is a shocking blusher and I give myself away so easily. The blushing was picked up on immediately. I think he took it as compliance that I felt the same - but I just felt uncomfortable. I looked at him plaintively and said, 'Stop making me blush. It was only a piece of bloody cake...'

I got out of the shop fairly sharpish and later, told Mr P what had happened, who suddenly became My Hero (he's pretty good at that, you know!) and next day, despite him being in agony with the dreadful dentistry work he had just undergone, he accompanied me to Eddie's where I needed to purchase two sticks of butter. Eddie looked a bit askance and kept giving me sly looks to which I refused to respond. Later that afternoon, I was driving past his shop to access the rear of our house and he came out of his shop. "Oi, yer bugger!" he exclaimed. "Yer brought yer bloody 'usband in fer back-up this morning, didn't you?"
"Yes, I did!" I retorted, and continued on my way...

Daft old bugger! He's about 15 years older than me and is married to a woman whose looks can kill at ten paces. Even #2 told me last night she doesn't think she has ever seen her smile once in the three years we have patronised her shop! I just think Eddie leads a frustrated life and likes to dream, such as Mr Parsnip and I do. At least he has his two Jaguars, though - a modern and a Vintage. It seems you can predict the weather by which one he is driving. If he is in the Vintage, the sun will shine all day as he is too scared to let raindrops fall on it. If the weather be inclement, he'll be in the modern one.

Village life, eh?

I wouldn't exchange it for a win on the Lottery.

Damn! Yes, I would!

PS. We didn't win this weekend, either...

Winners & Losers

So, I won the lottery on Saturday, you know. I was so thrilled, I did a dance in the Post Office where I collected my winnings, much to the horror of Bill the Post Master. It wasn't a great win - only my second in the history of the National Lottery's lifespan and the current score stands at Agnes: £20 - National Lottery: £1,322. Thus, I still have a long way to go before I can consider that I have beaten the system. And it really does gaul me that my £1,322 will have gone towards funding an arts project in Nether Codswallop for tramps to make sculptures out of beer cans.

Every week, people across the world play some form of lottery. In the UK, there is a mind-boggling array of forms and cards which you scratch, mark, and assess, like a randy Tom cat spraying his territory. In my 'village' (I was actually told the other day that Weaverham is the largest village in Europe and really ought to be accorded 'town' status, but all the residents kicked off at the thought of their house prices dropping by 50p) you can tell the lottery addicts a mile off.

My heart sinks when I walk into the Post Office bearing my £2.00 for two lucky dips and I am behind the following:

Short, stocky man with a grey buzz cut around 63 years of age. It's heaving with rain outside but he is sporting a saggy red vest which gapes around the arm holes displaying his hairy man boobs. His shorts are shiny blue satin and very tight. He has flip-flops on. He has a tattoo of practically every design on every imaginable part of his arms, shoulders, neck, back and calves (eewwwww!) which, against the leathery tan, look like some mad child has come and scribbled all over him whilst bored. He spends all his incapacity benefit for that week on numbers for the forthcoming month, and then checks his numbers for the previous month.

The old lady who, because it is throwing it down outside, wears a plastic polka-dot headscarf which constantly slips down over her nose making her unable to see properly. She is huffing and puffing at the bloke in front of her, complaining that 'people shouldn't do this when it's busy' and is trying to rally the complaining troops. We all stare at the ceiling and ignore her. When she gets to the front of the queue, she can't find her money and starts rifling through every pocket of her coat, tartan shopping trolley, knickers and plastic headscarf (just in case). After this charade, she finally hands over £20 and doesn't want the lucky dips - oh no, she is going to choose her 120 numbers herself...There...At the counter...In front of me...
When that is finally done, she'll continue to order a quarter of Sherbert Lemons, Pear Drops, Wine Gums (oh, no, put them back, they make me false teeth stick together) and Pontefract Cakes which 'keep me regular'.

The 15 year old spotty yoof who is rebuffed because he is too young to play the lottery. 'Aww, man, I'm, like, 19. It was my birthday last week. Honest. Ask Gaz, Baz, Tez, Kaz or Loz. They'll tell you.' He rows incessantly with the Post Master who refuses to ask Gaz et al for a reference, so spotty yoof goes next door to the off license and illegally buys 12 cans of Special Brew as if to prove a point, and then spends the rest of the afternoon drunkenly harrassing my greedy cat who goes begging around the chippy, much to my embarrassment.

When the National Lottery was first launched in the UK, practically every win from £100 upwards was reported in the press. People who seemed to have winning streaks were interviewed and asked for the secret of their success. One such woman swore blind that she put a large saucepan on her head and concentrated, trying to locate the magic numbers. I was really impressed by this and decided to give it a whirl.

One Saturday night, I sat in front of the TV waiting excitedly for the numbers to be announced. Atop my head I wore a large saucepan. It was the only one which fitted my head. It was made by Le Creuset, who only manufacture pots and pans from cast iron. My neck muscles were slowly giving out and my head listed dangerously to the left. My (then) husband walked in and stared at me. 'What the f*ck are you doing?' he asked. 'I'm going to win the Lottery!' I retorted hotly. 'What are you wearing a saucepan on your head for?' I impatiently threw the news article at him, which he read, and then declared that I had to wear the pan for calculating the numbers, not checking them. So, I didn't win that night. And it was so uncomfortable that I never bothered again.

Some friends of ours at the time held a National Lottery party shortly after this. We all went for dinner and were kindly given a Lottery ticket each. At 9pm, the gathered throng sat around the telly with baited breath. The numbers were called out with great theatricals from The Voice of the Balls and suddenly, one of our party went white. We all stared at him. He was a shaking, spitting, blustering wreck. 'I don't believe it,' he whispered. 'I've won. I've Won...I'VE F*CKING WON THE BIG ONE!!!!' Everyone clamoured for his ticket and stared. Indeed, he had. There was great elation at the thought that all of us might just get a cut if we were nice to him that night, so the women ignored their husbands and clamoured to sit in his lap and tell him what a lovely boy he was. The excitement was tangible...

About ten minutes after this, our host was visibly and audibly crying with laughter away from the meleé and we turned to him to find out what the big joke was. He was so hysterical, he could hardly breath. We caught the contagious laughter from him and all started howling, despite not knowing what was funny. Without a word, he got up, went to the TV and pulled out a video cassette and handed it to our 'winner'. Quizzical looks were exchanged. And then it dawned. Gavin had recorded the previous week's win, bought lottery tickets, making sure one of the tickets had last week's winning numbers and had started the tape running before we went into the lounge for the results.

This went down like a fart in a diving suit...Jaws dropped to the floor, eyes widened in united horror, and the 'winner', I have to say, did NOT see the funny side of it and left the party abruptly, with much slamming of doors and manic profanities. It sort of put a dampener on the evening, but I still take my hat off to Gavin and think it was one of the most wizard set-ups I have ever encountered in my life. I am just glad that he didn't choose me to be the winner, as I would probably be serving life now in the women's equivalent of Wormwood Scrubs for murder.

Well, I was given a free Euro lottery ticket for tomorrow night's draw and, no doubt, I shan't win this week. But, it's something to look forward to as it's got to be someone, I suppose, and, as Bill the Post Master says to me, if you don't play, you can't win (he's just scared his PO will be shut down as he makes most of his money on his lottery license, probably).

So, wish me luck, and if I win the big one, I shall take a grand world tour and look up all you international bloggers and come and pester you for free bed and board whilst I sit, partaking of your hospitality, throwing wads of notes at you in my generosity.