Padraig O'Reilly

 Padraig O'Reilly

As I approached the bus-stop this morning, hat-less and care-free, enjoying the noon-day sunshine, I looked around for my new friend Padraig O'Reilly. It has become one of my routines on alternate Wednesdays, after the coffee-house discussion in the Old Mill. This smartly turned-out young man caught my eye a few weeks back with his rubber knee-pads,  leather belt, high-boots and his taut, kung-foo, readiness. I was too polite to ask his business, but too curious to ignore his evident plea to be noticed. Perhaps a fantasy warrior. Or a prisoner on early release for good-behaviour. 

He had responded most courteously to my greeting in a lovely Irish lilt. I soon gathered his destination, his preference for the early shift, his ambitious saving-plans, to learn to drive and then to buy a car. He wanted to know the hours I used to work (9 – 5 in my case, or 8–6 when I accounted for travel). And my regular breakfast. I was charmed by his openness, and interest. I learned of his 'traveller' in-laws; and out-laws, as the case might be.  I realised that I was being measured against his own experience. 

This morning I complimented him on his neatness and he, in return, praised my turnout. He reached for a note-book in one of the conspicuous pockets hanging from his leather belt. As he thumbed through to the back page, I remembered that writing was one of his prouder accomplishments. There he had listed five lotteries, including Euro-millions, Set-for-Life and the "Post-code" Lottery. In these he had decided to invest £50 a week.  Forty pounds, he corrected himself, sheepishly, as he crossed out the "post-code" lottery; someone must have told him that it did not operate like the others. 

"You are feeling lucky, are you?" I teased. "A feeling in your bones?"

"Some years ago", I continued, "I thought I might run a lottery in which the punters would all give me £2 a week, I would pocket one pound and give them £1 back. For that is all these other lotteries are doing, isn't it," I continued; "except that they give a million pounds to one guy and nothing at all to a million other guys. (Maybe they give 50p to charity; and pay tax on the 50p they keep.) 

"You can't win if you don't enter", he replied. 

"Very true, very true," I conceded. "What would you say to this, then: every week you give me £50;  and after 4 weeks I give you £200?"

"You have to stick to the limits you can afford", he told me. "Never go over". 

"That is good advice" I agreed. 

He waved me onto the bus ahead of him, and I accepted. He likes to sit up front by the driver; by the door. 

Four weeks later, Easter Friday afternoon,  I was queuing in the post office behind three men all of whom were there simply to buy a lottery ticket and a scratch card. The man at the front handed over £4.50 which he had ready as coins in his hand. I, still on mission, was tut-tutting to myself when my ear was caught by the conversation of two women behind me. One was telling the other that she knew of a chap who won a million pounds on a scratch card. Bought a house, the money soon gone. 

I realised that it was I that did not understand lotteries. Oh, I understood the maths alright. It was the hour or two of hope, of dreaming, that was beyond my emotional register.  No imagination, that was my problem.

As I packed my purchases into my bag I turned to the women.

"I was excited to overhear that your friend won a million pounds", I said; "One in a million, I suppose." 

"Yeh, literally!" she replied.