Page 9 of Birds of a Feather

I was once invited to a cousin’s baby shower where one of the activities was to write down a piece of advice we’d like to give the baby, which was then collated into a book. As my cousin read out messages of wisdom such as ‘always remember how much you are loved’, ‘trust your instincts’ and ‘there’s no such thing as perfect timing’, I realised I had misunderstood the assignment. Although I still maintain that ‘if your gums bleed when you floss, it usually means you don’t do it enough’ is sound advice.

I also couldn’t ignore that if I had a baby of my own, I risked opening a Pandora’s box of issues that stemmed from my own upbringing. I didn’t even want to think about that.

I continued scrolling through my inbox. While I may not have felt my biological alarm clock ringing, I certainly felt my stomach rumbling. A check of my watch confirmed it was, indeed, lunchtime.

‘I’m just going to pop out to the shops,’ I said to Alannah, the council’s other environmental officer whose desk adjoined my own. ‘Do you need anything?’

I asked this as a courtesy; Alannah’s diet primarily consisted of coffee and biscuits from the staff tea room.

‘I’m all good, thanks,’ they replied. ‘See you soon.’

~

I arrived at the nearest supermarket, which regrettably was located deep in the bowels of a large suburban shopping mall. The alternative retail option was an independent store that sold expensive organic nuts by the kilo and other overpriced groceries. There was little variation between the tins of tuna available at both retailers, except for the price. So I navigated inadequate parking, tolerated the crowded aisles and dodged the salespeople handing out skincare samples and promises of improved beauty, all to save 37 cents per can, which adds up over a year.

Once inside the supermarket, I selected my tuna in a variety of flavours (it is important when you’re eating the same thing each day to include some variation) and made my way to the self-serve checkout to avoid Pam on register four. Pam was nice enough, but she always tried to engage in small talk. The last time I went through her checkout she offered her unsolicited observations about what she described as my ‘limited taste in cuisine’. I didn’t feel like Pam’s insights.

As I scanned the last tin and went to place it in my bag, it slipped from my hand and dropped onto the big toe of my right foot. I winced in pain and, as I looked up, I met Pam’s eyes. She shot me a warm, sympathetic smile, which made me regret having deliberately avoided her. The world probably needed more Pams.

Hustled by the automated voice that instructed me to ‘Please place item in the bagging area’, I put the tin in the bag, tapped the buttons to finalise my purchase, and removed a $20 note from my wallet (I found it easier to budget when I dealt in cash). As I did, a small folded piece of paper flicked onto the ground.

‘You don’t want to lose that.’ A rotund middle-aged man stopped scanning his haul of ‘frozen meals for one’ to bend down and pick up the lotto ticket I’d bought two days before. ‘It might be the winning one.’

‘Ha,’ I snorted, taking the ticket from his sausage-like fingers. ‘I doubt it, but thanks.’

I gathered my bag, vowed to always go through Pam’s checkout in the future and hobbled out of the supermarket.

A large shiny gold cat statue sat next to a ‘Lotto here’ sign on the counter of a newsagent kiosk ahead of me. It stared blankly into the mall, waving its mechanical arm up and down. Next to the cat was a sign that promoted an app for ‘easily managing your lotto’. I guess it made sense they’d try to make it as easy as possible for people to part with their money. But I wasn’t going to waste the data needed to download it; this was the one and only lotto ticket I’d ever buy.

‘I’d like to check this, please,’ I said, offering my ticket to the bespectacled man behind the counter.

‘No worries. Just scan it in that machine,’ he replied, gesturing to an electronic box on the counter.

I orientated the ticket so the barcode faced the machine and held it under the fluorescent green light.

After a moment, a tinny dinging sound chimed loudly from the machine and the word ‘CONGRATULATIONS’ flashed on the small screen.

‘Holy fucking shit!’ the newsagent blurted as he baulked at the screen facing him.

‘What?’ I demanded. ‘Have I won something?’

‘Yes! You fucking have,’ he said with a laugh. ‘You’ve won second division.’

Chapter 7

Beth

I walked away from the newsagent booth feeling completely discombobulated. After a few steps, I turned back to check I hadn’t hallucinated the whole thing. But the bespectacled newsagent, whose name I had learned was Eric, and the gold, counter-dwelling cat were waving at me in unison in a way that assured me I hadn’t.

I clutched the winning ticket and the piece of paper on which Eric had scribbled the Lottery Head Office address to my chest. I could feel my heart thumping against my hand.

Winning the second-division prize isn’t like winning at the pokies; dollar coins do not spew from a machine. In fact, Eric had informed me there would be no cash transaction at all. After he’d scanned my ticket, he called the Lottery Head Office to clarify the next steps.

Eric was animated and exuberant, while I was utterly speechless. I had received a smattering of academic accolades and a couple of encouragement awards for turning up for sport, but this was the first time I had won something that was completely random.

Eric relayed that I was to report to the Lottery Head Office where I would hand over my ticket and my bank BSB and account number. Then, in ten business days, $264,412.51 – my second-division haul – would be deposited into my account.

I was told to call the number on the piece of paper when I arrived at the Lottery Head Office car park and someone would meet me at my car and escort me to the building (a security precaution). Once inside, I would be given a booklet about financial planning, information about tax, a box of chocolates and possibly a bottle of champagne if there were any left in the cupboard (they had a habit of disappearing, apparently).

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