Vacuum packed, in a pub way exceeding its recommended capacity, I struggle to tame the thick fog of claustrophobia, enveloping my bones and suffocating my every breath. Bawdy laughter and relentless, spit spraying shouts offend my ears and turn my stomach. I bend my knees, allowing space to tip my glass. I stay out of the deafening conversation surrounding me, competing over music and each other. I spy the muted T.V set in the corner and wish I was at home, sat in front of my own, on my own. The lottery numbers fill the screen. Probably following some lame quiz show, shoe-horned in to stretch the programme. I pull out a mess of old bus tickets, post-it notes, much needed fivers and pick out my delicate lottery ticket.
HOLY SHIT. I jam it all back in the pocket and zip it up. Need to leave. Don’t say anything. Don’t say bye. Just leave. 100million quid in my pocket on the flimsiest piece of paper imaginable. Jesus Christ. Drop the drink. Don’t make eye contact. Check the pocket. Still zipped. Taxi might crash. Walk home. Might get mugged? Walk in the road. Might get run over. Check pocket. Still zipped.
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