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Do you have a purse full of hope?

I may be a millionaire. I may be a millionaire many, many times over. As I write, I have 14 unchecked lottery tickets in my purse. I buy two at a time: “One lucky dip for today and one for tomorrow please,” I chirrup most Tuesdays and Fridays. That’s eight quid a week. Which is 32 quid a month. Which is £384 a year. Which is half my household insurance, a return flight to Ibiza high season, a whole winter outfit or most of an Isabel Marant Etoile coat. Apart from any of that I should clearly be sending that money to refugees. Or Marie Curie. Because it’s idiotic that I buy them and buy them and buy them…

But here’s the thing: I get such honeyed pleasure for my faintly pulsating purse. No one else can feel the vibrations. No one else knows that I may be a millionaire many, many times over. And I find myself thinking, “Should I even bother with Lotto? The jackpot is only £6 million which clearly won’t get me very far. Maybe I should focus on Euromillions because that’s a much more useful €72.” By the way, Brexit doesn’t mean that we no longer qualify to be part of Euromillions. I checked. Phew.

So you see what fun it is. The fantasy. The never quite knowing. The ‘Someone has to win.’ When I’m paying for something or rummaging around for change I catch sight of my – potentially – pink ticket, and it makes me maybe infinitesimally nicer. Everyone needs a purse full of hope.

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