The headline did a little skip, let out a whoop and beamed at me in ultra-large, neon letters.
“MARCUS PAY DAY!”
The sub-heading was equally ecstatic: “First-time Lotto Max player from Barrhead wins $50 million”
Nervously, I began reading.
“Barrhead reporter Marcus Day made front page news today – after scooping the jackpot in his first-ever Lotto Max. The former vagrant noted for a very shiny head …”
Me? The guy with the worst job in the world according to reliable surveys? No, surely not. But the big, black, bold font was emphatic. Yes, YOU, you pinhead.
Wow, I was rich, rich, rich. I was rolling in dough. Rolling, rolling, rolling …
And then I rolled out of bed, smashed my shiny pate on the granite rock of reality and woke up.
Sigh. How pitiful, I was still just a teeny-weeny reporter with a mega rich fantasy life, picking up a teeny-weeny reporter’s wage,
I really should seek therapy for these wild dreams.
I wonder how the counselling will pan out. Perhaps like this, with me in disguise.
Counsellor Max Bucks: How can I help you, poor little man?
Doofus Dinglefritz: I have a big problem.
Bucks: Oh yes, BMS. Don’t worry, I’ve come across this many …
Doofus: BMS?
Bucks: Yes, you’re not fooling anyone with that pineapple wig. There are different remedies for Bald Man Syndrome.
Doofus: No, no. I think I’m an addict. Every time I buy a lottery ticket I have this strange sensation. Dollar signs flash in neon lights like a divine signal. I’m convinced I’m going to be a multi-millionaire and receive loads of weird phone calls. In fact, I’m looking forward ...
Bucks: Well here’s a heavy dose of reality to shake you out of your fantasies, little man. You owe me $1,500 for this little chat.
So the session ends. I scoff at the bill. It will be trifling compared to the jackpot heading into my bank account.
Last week I bought another ticket. A colleague checked the numbers – just two matched those in the winning line. I wasn’t overly concerned. She had obviously messed up again.
I rushed to REXALL and scanned my ticket.
“Sorry appears you are a non-winner.”
What? You’re telling me I’m a loser? It was outrageous. What a slur on my gambling credentials.
I bought another ticket and the numbers winked at me: $50 million was coming my way. I wonder how I will respond to the weird calls. Will marriage proposals come aplenty?
The inner gambler stirs restlessly.
I’m beginning to think I really do need help, just like millions of other dreamers.
