Sophie Kinsella - The Secret Dreamworld of a Shopaholic

'Dad!'

'Where's the television guide?' he says impatiently.

'There's got to be something better than this.'

'There's the Lottery!' I almost scream. 'I want to watch the Lottery!'

'Why do you want to watch the Lottery? Have you got a ticket?'

For a moment I'm silenced. If I'm going to be a secret winner, I can't tell anyone I've bought a ticket. Not

even my parents.

'No!' I say, giving a little laugh. 'I just want to see Martine McCutcheon.'

To my intense relief, it's back on, and Tiffany's singing a song. I relax into the sofa and glance at my watch.

I know strictly speaking that whether I watch it or not won't affect my chances of winning – but I don't want to miss the great moment, do I? You might think I'm a bit mad, but I feel that if I watch it, I can kind of communicate with the balls through the screen. I'll stare hard at them as they get tossed around, and silently urge on my winning numbers. It's a bit like supporting a team. Team 1 6 9 16 23 44.

Except the numbers, never come out in order. Team 44 1 23 6 9 16. Possibly. Or Team 23 6 1… Suddenly there's a round of applause and Martine McCutcheon's finished her song. Oh my God. It's about to happen. My life is about to change.

'The Lottery's become terribly commercialized, hasn't it?' says my mum, as Dale Winton leads Martine over to the red button. 'It's a shame, really.'

'What do you mean, it's become commercialized?' retorts my dad.

'People used to play the Lottery because they wanted to support the charities.'

'No they didn't! Don't be ridiculous! No-one gives a fig about the charities. This is all about self, self, self.'

Dad gestures towards Dale Winton with the remote control and the screen goes dead.

'Dad!' I wail.

'So you think no-one cares about the charities?' says my mum into the silence.

'That's not what I said.'

'Dad! Put it back on!' I screech. 'Put-it-back-on!' I'm about to wrestle him for the remote control when he flicks it back on again.

I stare at the screen in utter disbelief. The first ball has already dropped. And it's 44. My number 44.

'… last appeared three weeks ago. And here comes the second ball… And it's number 1.'

I can't move. It's taking place, before my very eyes. I'm actually winning the Lottery. I'm winning the bloody Lottery!

Now that it's happening, I feel surprisingly calm. It's as if I've known, all my life, that this would happen. Sitting here silently on the sofa, I feel as though I'm in a fly-on-the-wall documentary about myself, narrated by Joanna Lumly or someone. 'Becky Bloomwood always secretly knew she would win the Lottery one day. But on the day it happened, even she couldn't have predicted…'

'And another low one. Number 3.'

What? My mind snaps to and I stare perplexedly at the screen. That can't be right. They mean 23.

'And number 2, last week's bonus ball.'

I feel cold all over. What the hell is going on? What are these numbers?

'And another low one! Number 4. A popular number – it's had twelve appearances so far this year. And finally… Number 5! Well I never! This is a bit of a first! Now, lining them up in order…'

No. This can't be serious. This has to be a mistake.

The winning lottery numbers cannot possibly be 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 44. That's not a lottery combination, it's a… it's a sick joke.

And I was winning. I was winning.

'Look at that!' my mum's saying. 'Absolutely incredible! 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 44.'

'And why should that be incredible?' replies Dad.

'It's as likely as any other combination.'

'It can't be!'

'Jane, do you know anything about the laws of probability?'

Quietly I get up and leave the room, as the National Lottery theme tune blares out of the telly. I walk into the kitchen, sit down at the table and bury my head in my hands. I feel slightly shaky, to tell you the truth. I was so convinced I was going to win. I was living in a big house and going on holiday to Barbados with all my friends, and walking into Agnes B and buying anything I wanted. It felt so real.

And now, instead, I'm sitting in my parents' kitchen, and I can't afford to go on holiday and I've just spent eighty quid on a wooden bowl I don't even like.

Miserably, I turn on the kettle, pick up a copy of Woman's Journal lying on the counter and flick through it – but even that doesn't cheer me up.

Everything seems to remind me of money. Maybe my dad's right, I find myself thinking dolefully. Maybe Cut Back is the answer. Suppose… suppose I cut back enough to save sixty quid a week. I'd have ?6,000 in a hundred weeks.

And suddenly my brain is alert. Six thousand quid. That's not bad, is it? And if you think about it, it can't be that hard to save sixty quid a week. It's only the same as a couple of meals out. I mean, you'd hardly notice it.

God, yes. That's what I'll do. Sixty quid a week, every week. Maybe I'll even pay it into a special account. It'll be fantastic! I'll be completely on top of my finances – and when I've paid off my bills I'll just keep saving. It'll become a habit to be frugal. Then at the end of every year I'll splash out on one classic investment like an Armani suit. Or maybe Christian Dior. Something really classy, anyway.

I'll start on Monday, I think excitedly, spooning chocolate Ovaltine into a cup. What I'll do is, I just won't spend anything. All my spare money will mount up, and I'll be rich. This is going to be so great.

Brompton's Store

CUSTOMER ACCOUNTS

1 Brompton Street

London SW4 7TH

Ms Rebecca Bloomwood

Flat 2

4 Burney Rd

London SW6 8FD

6 March 2000

Dear Ms Bloomwood

Thank you for your cheque for ?43.00, received today. Unfortunately, the cheque is unsigned. No doubt just an oversight on your part. I am therefore returning it to you and request that you sign it and return to us.

As you are no doubt aware, this payment is already late by eight days.

I look forward to receiving your signed cheque.

Yours sincerely

John Hunter

Customer Accounts Manager

Frugality. Simplicity. These are my new watchwords. A new, uncluttered, Zen-like life, in which I spend nothing. Spend nothing. I mean, when you think about it, how much money do we all waste every day? No wonder I'm in a little bit of debt. And really, it's not my fault. I've merely been succumbing to the Western drag of materialism – which you have to have the strength of elephants to resist. At least, that's what it says in my new book.

You see, yesterday, when Mum and I went into Waterstone's to buy her paperback for the week, I sidled off to the self-help section, and bought the most wonderful book I've ever read. Quite honestly, it's going to change my life. I've got it now, in my bag. It's called Controlling Your Cash by David E. Barton, and it's fantastic. What it says is that we can all fritter away money without realizing it, and that most of us could easily cut our cash consumption by half in just one week.

In one week!

You just have to do things like make your own sandwiches instead of eating in restaurants and ride a bike to work instead of taking the tube. When you start thinking about it, you can save money everywhere.

And as David E. Barton says, there are lots of free pleasures which we forget because we're so busy spending money, like parks and museums and the simple joy of a country walk.

It's all so easy and straightforward. And the best thing is, you have to start out by going shopping! The book says you should begin itemizing every single purchase in a single normal spending day and plot it on a graph. It stresses that you should be honest and not suddenly curtail or alter your spending pattern – which is lucky, because it's Suze's birthday on Thursday and I've got to get her a present.