As I’m still wildly unsure of what I plan to do with my career, and want nothing more than to spend every day enjoying champagne for breakfast, I’m partial to purchasing a lottery ticket every now and again. In fact, what started as a silly way to spend £2 whilst I’m buying groceries has evolved into the weekly panic attack of a desperate woman.
Whilst the only time I’ve been to a casino is at 5am to ply myself with more alcohol after all of the local bars close, it is worrying that I continue to pin my hopes and dreams on winning the jackpot. What’s even worse is that every time I wait for the numbers to be revealed, I’m convinced that this is the week my life makes a sudden turn for the better and I finally get to live the life I deserve. No more inner-debates over whether I should buy the £3.99 wine or splash out and treat myself to the £5 bottle: I’ll get myself a damn vineyard.
Unfortunately, once again my evening spent refreshing the ‘euromillions’ tag on my twitter timeline has been a fruitless endeavour, and plans to quit my day job in favour of becoming a lady of leisure have come to a grinding halt as someone else walks away with my prize.
At least I’m safe in the knowledge that none of my friends that claim the first thing they’d do with the money is give half to charity have won: the vineyard will just have to wait until next week.