Real winnings

This is a story I did for my creative writing course - it had to be a memory. I had a 1500 word limit and I haven't yet got the results back. I hope you enjoy and please, tell me if you like it or if you hate it or whatever.

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The thick London fog acts as a blanket to protect all civilians from the natural starlight. Sparkling umbrellas, presents and stars festively light up the dark street. The clock on giant Debenhams building, illuminated by fairy lights, reads 1:30. The busy street is filled with people of all sorts. I hear Australian accents, little French children and many teenagers with agendas alternate to shopping. It doesn’t seem right, the amount of people in the world, on Oxford St. even, and somehow, it’s me.

 

The toilet flushes and I feel the vibrations from the old plumbing under the floor. As I get up to go into the bathroom, my sister emerges from the door and for an awkward moment, there’s nowhere to move. The flat, covered in pink carpet, was way too small for one, let alone three. I move into the bedroom so my sister could move carefully past the small side table covered in little ornaments into the sitting room. I pull the cord to turn on the bathroom light and the fan roars into life. Everything is old and small. The bath that I have to use a stepladder to get in is narrow and the water pressure is not much better than a light rain. After a quick shower, I dry and get ready for another night in front of the telly.

 

This is not how my trip was meant to pan out, I think to myself as I have a quick read of the TV guide. We were meant to explore the hidden parts of London, get drunk in the small pubs that only a few people know about. Instead, I’m sitting on Grandma’s chair while I have the opportunity to, watching our recorded “Don’t Tell the Bride.” Although Jemma doesn’t mention it, I can tell she’s slightly disappointed. It’s been two years since we’ve last been in London, and all we’ve done is go down to Ealing Broadway, trawled down to the local pub on occasion and caught up with a few of Grandma’s old mates. I suppose it’s my fault, after all, it was me who demanded a Christmas in London. Looking back on it, perhaps Grandma’s one bedroom flat was an unsuitable location to host nine people.

 

Christmas was mediocre at best. Pub, roast dinner, bed. I miss home, I miss my family, and I miss him. There were no real presents given to - a clock in the shape of a jar of jam, a few bits of make-up and a lottery ticket. I shouldn’t be ungrateful really; this trip was paid for entirely by my family, I didn’t have to save a cent. And I did manage to get to Italy and Paris. On second thought, perhaps I did do well for Christmas.

Jemma’s voice brings me out of my selfish daydream and back into reality.

“Replay of the lottery’s on. Did you want me to check yours as well?”

I nod and rummage in my purse for my ticket.  The odds of me winning are something like one in fourteen million; however, my great-grandmother thought it was a nice gift idea so I can’t complain. And hey, if I win anything that can add to the remaining pounds I have dwindling down in my account. I don’t even know how much I have left – probably not enough for the remainder of my trip. Jemma’s been good though, paying for bits and pieces along the way.

I see her furiously writing the numbers down and quickly glancing at the tickets. “Here you are, I’ve written the numbers of the top of the ticket. Just check if you have any of them then throw it out.”

One. Fifteen. Twenty-three. Thirty-two. Thirty-six. Forty-three. Nineteen.

I see thirty-two first. Next to it is one. I circle the two before gasping. Twenty-three, thirty-six and forty-three are all on the same row. I check desperately for nineteen, but the last number on my row is eight. I hate eight.