Saturday, 12 December 2009

In those days my recurring fantasy involved winning the lottery. I would spend long hours in reverie, contemplating the existence I would inhabit with such wealth.
I decided little would change, initially anyway, whilst I got over the gaping shock and acclimatized to my newfound financial status.
Gradually my secret wealth would become apparent through my increasingly erratic and decadent behaviour and gestures. I fantasised about attending parties, pockets stuffed with £20 notes whichI would spontaneously distribute at an arbitary point in the evening, I would flutter those motherfucking 20s like confetti, causing a frantic furore and general mystification.
I think I'd still live at home, initially anyway. I don't know why. Out of some sort of perversity?
And then I'd travel, travel like a motherfucker, all over the fucking planet, this pulsating disease of a planet.
But I'd travel in the manner of a budget-minded backpacker, accumulating raw adventures which I could easily bail myself out of. I'd explore the seething black erotic mysteries of the Latin American night.
I'd figure out which country I liked best and live there. I'd furnish my comfortable yet modest home with paintings and a massive collection of records and books or maybe none at all.
Or else I'd live in an expansive, slightly rundown mansion in South America. I began speculating about keeping a staff of servants and maids and the like. Then I began speculating about building an opulently furnished house in the garden for my staff of servants to live in. I began speculating about how many staff I would employ, how much I would pay them, what shifts they would work. My fantasy became weirdly logistical.
Then I began worrying about being blackmailed or maybe drunkenly impregnating one of the maids and being exploited by her family in tandem with a conspiracy of police and government officials.

As I walked the dog today a different fantasy drifted into my cavernous mind. I imagined myself a highly respected but somewhat reclusive author. I am being consulted by a Hollywood producer regarding a script. My expertise is sought.
In the course of this consultation I meet all the actors performing in the film, including Naomi Watts. When I meet Ms Watts I become bashful and quiet. It becomes obvious that I'm infatuated with her.
She finds my behaviour completely endearing. She is flattered and flirtatious.

I don't even play the fucking lottery.

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