Climbing up the stairs I met two people on the dream landing. They reintroduced themselves as Greed and Avarice (we had met before). They were touting lottery tickets for the Dream Tote. “What would you buy with the winnings? A new car? A house? A dream holiday?” I shook my head sagaciously, “That’s not the way it works, all those things are just pipe dreams – they can only slow you down”. They looked at me aghast, “Where do you get such unnatural ideas?” they asked. “I don’t know” I replied, “I just think them and write them down in my note book”. Curiously they enquired, “Where is this notebook?” “Up my ass!” I replied, facetious like. They subjected me to a cavity search. “This is just like immigration!” I complained. “You ain’t going nowhere” they replied.
Half an ounce of finest green, a hookah pipe, a continental road map and a packet of cough drops, but no notebook. “Why do you keep all this stuff up your ass?” They asked. “I didn’t know it was there” I replied. We just stood there staring at each other. “We’ll put it back then” they offered. “I’d rather you didn’t” I said.
In the end I bought a ticket and spent the evening feverishly smoking my hookah pipe and dreaming of my new life in the Seychelles and my luxury yacht full of Miss World contestants. I sat riveted to the television as the winning numbers were read out and my dreams dissolved one by one. Just for a moment though my expectations were high and my possibilities seemed expanded, before I crashed back to earth – just a little sickened by my present circumstances. Maybe the man was right when he said that lotteries were a tax on fools.