News about your ticket

It's a daily ritual, the last thing I do before I go into the office and turn on my work head for the day. Each morning I reach into the side pocket of my oversized satchel and pull out my phone to check for any messages.

Today there are three small symbols at the top; one telling me I've missed a call from Philip, another saying there's a voice-mail message. I guess that's probably from Philip too, so I make a mental note to listen to it once I'm at my desk.

The third symbol is the small envelope that tells me I've got an e-mail, I click it open as I step into the lift and see that it's from The National Lottery. In the subject heading are just four words:

"News about your ticket!"

When you buy your lottery tickets on line, there's an e-mail announcement each time you win - no matter how small the prize. And it's surprising how often that happens if you buy a ticket every week. So I smile in recognition at the message. I know I can't check the outcome at work, our web administrators would never allow access to a gambling site, but I'm not too bothered, it's never been more than £10 before. I don't expect it to be any more today, so I make a mental note to check when I get home again, then I step out of the lift and head for my desk, calling out a slightly more cheerful than usual "good morning!" to everyone as I pass. After all, you never know...

It's a busy day, and my morning passes in a whirl of e-mails and meetings, checking papers and chatting things through. It barely seems like five minutes later when my phone rings, and I realise it's almost lunchtime.

"Is it five past twelve?" teases one of my colleagues. They all know that a phone call at 12.05 is almost always from Philip. It's another daily ritual and they all know how pleased I am to take the call, even when I'm in the middle of a work conversation; even when all I can do is tell him I'll call him back.

After I put the phone down again, I realise I've forgotten to tell him that we might be millionaires. For the next half hour, while I'm gazing at my computer screen, I think about how I'd tell him. I imagine the excitement, the wild schemes we'd dream up, the plans we'd make for spending our fortune. I look around the office and wonder what I'd say to colleagues here. A small part of me wonders if I'd even come back to tell them.

A while later, my daughter texts me, asking when I'm coming to visit. I can't help but think of all the time I could spend with her and my grandchildren if I were really a millionaire. From there, my mind wanders to gifts for my family, houses for sale, a week in a Paris apartment with friends, and a year travelling the world to watch every Grand Prix. I answer an e-mail and think about the sort of job I'd do if I didn't have to worry about paying the mortgage.

As the day passes, thoughts of riches recede. I crawl home along an M25 already made sticky by Olympics traffic without even imagining the red Ferrari that would make the journey more bearable. I get home and potter about; putting on the washing, hoovering up the cat fur. I carry the empty bottles out to the car for recycling, without a thought for the fleet of staff every millionaire employs. I walk out into the garden and feel the warmth in the late evening sunshine, without even comparing it to the Greek island villa my new wealth might acquire.

It's not until after dinner that I remember the e-mail. I log in, and in no time at all know my fate. With a wry smile I acknowledge that £8 won't quite get me a Ferrari. It won't quite change my life.

Then I look over at Philip, sitting on the sofa in his shorts and vest, swearing at the news about the Olympics, typing away madly on his laptop.

He looks across and smiles, "Gin and tonic?" he offers. And then it's only a very small step to realising that my life really doesn't need changing.

Testa Rossa

I have, for as long as I can remember, loved the sight, sound and smell of a fast car. Some years ago, my very lovely husband, for a birthday treat, bought me a day's driving at Silverstone (home of the British Grand Prix). I cannot even begin to explain the thrill of driving first a Lotus, and then a Ferrari around the racing circuit. It was, without doubt the best birthday present ever.
Earlier this year, for another rather big birthday, Philip repeated his act of kindness and bought us tickets for the British Grand Prix in July. I am ridiculously excited, even though it's still six weeks away. When I tell you that he doesn't drive himself, needs to wear earplugs to escape the noise of the race cars, and finds Grand Prixs the least entertaining sport on the planet, you will appreciate the scale of his magnaminity. Perhaps it's love.
To keep my childish excitement at a containable level, I have been trying to occupy my mind with other pursuits. Below is a version of a poem I wrote some time ago when I was practising alliteration. It is my own homage to the symbol of the prancing horse.

Testa Rossa

I listened, lusted, longed for
the throbbing thrusty roar.
Three hundred horse power hammering home,
no music moved me more.

I joined, with jade-eyed jealousy
The Tifosi's swelling ranks
Saw seductive, screaming scarlet
through the swirling yellow flags.

Never wearied then of waiting,
wasteful, wistful hours and days
while you haunted, taunted thrilled and chilled me -
Cavallino rampante.