So we all troop into the sitting room, and my dad lights the gas flame-effect fire and turns on the telly.

And there it is! The National Lottery, in glorious Technicolor. The lights are shining, and Dale Winton is joshing with Tiffany from EastEnders, and every so often the audience gives an excited whoop. My stomach's getting tighter and tighter, and my heart's going thump-thump-thump. In a few minutes those balls are going to fall. In a few minutes I'm going to be a millionaire.

I lean calmly back on the sofa and think what I'll do when I win. At the very instant that I win, I mean. Do I scream? Do I keep quiet? Maybe I shouldn't tell anyone for twenty-four hours. Maybe I shouldn't tell anyone at all.

This new thought transfixes me. I could be a secret winner! I could have all the money and none of the pressure. If people asked me how I can afford so many designer clothes I'd just tell them I was doing lots of freelance work. Yes! And I could transform all my friends' lives anonymously, like a good angel. No-one would ever know. This is perfect!

I'm just working out how big a house I could manage to buy without everyone twigging, when a voice on the screen alerts me.

'Question to Number Three.'

What?

'My favourite animal is the flamingo because it's pink, fluffy, and has long legs.' The girl sitting on the stool excitedly unwinds a pair of long glossy legs, and the audience goes wild. I stare at her dazedly. What's going on? Why are we watching Blind Date?

'Now, this show used to be fun,' says Mum. 'But it's gone downhill.'

'You call this rubbish fun?' retorts my dad incredulously.

'Listen, Dad, actually, could we turn back to…'

'I didn't say it was fun now. I said-'

'Dad!' I say, trying not to sound too panicky. 'Could we just go back to BBC1 for a moment?'

Blind Date disappears and I sigh with relief. The next moment, an earnest man in a suit fills the screen.

'What the police failed to appreciate,' he says in a nasal voice, 'is that the witnesses were not sufficiently-'

'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