Every competition you entered as a kid you got rejected from, couldn’t win stuffed toys from cereal packets or chocolate bars in tombolas. And the essay you write doesn’t sound much, wouldn’t hold up to writers, men accustomed to hoop jumping, women have degrees now.
The lottery’s seemed such a sure thing, and pocket money’s funded weekly trips, and mathematics helped with the choice of numbers, in that you learnt which your favourites were in Mr. Harrison’s, Mr Tucker’s lessons. It’s the epitome of hope now, chance materialising in seconds.
Jack asks if you’re going and you ask what you’d stay for and you show him the ticket and he says, “How Willy Wonka, Charlie chocolate of you,” when he hoped this was Esio Trot.