Sunday 25th January – I apparently do have standards after all.

Question: What can improve the mood of a disorganised, knackered, slightly hungover single mum during a ten hour shift at her luxury hotel and spa reception job?

Answer: A single, male, newly minted lottery winner hiding from the media in room 320.tsdoasm2

That’s what.

Finally! My ship has checked in.

Question: What could take the shine off such glorious excitement?

Answer: That bunch of money-grabbing twenty-something tarts I work with.

Reception-Rachel, Wanton-Wendy, the alleged cleaner of rooms, and Fake-Bake, the Spa manager were all gaggled together when I arrived and, apparently insultingly sure that I was no threat whatsoever, provided me with a whispered update on how he had arrived late on Friday night as his home had been staked out by photographers and journalists and whatnot.

Hmmmm, challenge extended.

Challenge accepted.

£18m richer, this guy had gotten a bit loaded and unwisely shared all the details with the entire staff which effectively, and immediately, transformed him from mere guest into plump, juicy, butter-basted prey that was no longer staying in a suite in the hotel so much as temporarily roosting in it.

If the hotel staff were cartoons, they’d be fox shaped, wearing bibs and carrying cutlery.

Anyway, busily wheeling out my giant ACME cooking pot, I pondered the most effective way to chivvy a hot lottery winningtsdoasm2 feast out of its hidey hole, but as it turns out was saved the trouble by the voluntary appearance of the man himself asking for a replacement card key (at least, I think that’s what he was saying).

Hobbit sized, tattooed and skin-headed, he slurred whiskey fumes and an odour that may or may not have been stale vomit in my face and, to add the cherry atop my huge cake of disappointment, insisted on referring to me as ‘babes’. Beaming broadly, I cheerily stepped back and let Reception-Rachel loose on him.

Not even for eighteen million pal.

Can somebody please explain to me why the Universe always dishes out all the dosh in the direction of grubby, sweaty little hooligans like that?

I buy tickets every week and the most I have ever been awarded is five pounds and, as you know, I’m well sophisticated (and that), I also totally swear down that I wouldn’t let the money change me.

Conversely, I can only hope, for his sake, that the money actually does change him.

And quickly.


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