The second brightly coloured ball dropped from the big basket and was rolling along the steel track to join up with the first one as Isla came storming out of the kitchen, hurriedly unfolding a little pink ticket.
"Why didn't you tell me it had started?" my wife angrily demanded, plopping herself down on the sofa in front of the television, while fumbling with her reading glasses.
Every week I had to buy Isla a lucky dip ticket for the Megamillions lottery and every Saturday evening, almost without exception, she insisted on watching the live draw on television. Very few excuses were acceptable for missing the Saturday evening lottery show and we recorded the show whenever that happened. I'm not a fan of the lottery, but I'm Irish and I enjoy a flutter on the horses, so I had no objection to buying Isla her lottery ticket every week.
I liked to think I knew something about horses, but I was probably kidding myself. Very occasionally, hoping for a big win, I would take an overly optimistic punt on a rank outsider. At 99/1 or even longer odds, I never had any luck and the nags probably ended up in a glue factory. Realistically, I knew it was highly unlikely a long shot would be successful. In contrast, Isla believed it was only a matter of time before she won the lottery jackpot with random numbers. Never mind odds of 99/1, the odds of her winning the jackpot were 25 million to one.
When I first met her, I thought Isla would make a good match for me. A feisty Scots lassie from Aberdeenshire, she more than held her own in the verbal sparring of everyday life, whether with kith and kin, or with strangers. After three years of marriage I thought her only fault was a yearning for material goods and wealth, possibly due to her Scottish heritage. Personally, I was content with sufficient funds for the simple things in life, like good craic and a few pints in the pub with friends, or a day out at the horse racing. As my old dad was wont to say, enough is as good as a feast.
