"Would you go to work tomorrow, if you won it?"
She told me she would. Then she wouldn't. Then she'd ring in sick. But she'd want to hand in her notice. But who would she tell? And what would she say? And then there's the obligatory Facebook cull of those you don't need knowing your business. Not this business, anyway.
"Would you rather buy an island or a yacht?" I asked her.
She wanted neither. What use an island? And who'd sail the yacht? I told her 'not that kind of yacht, the posh Roman Abramovich kind,' and she still wasn't interested.
I told her that I'd quite like a yacht, for seeing places, but she'd rather a helicopter. I disagreed, said I'd fall out, and all of a sudden she was commanding her phone to look up the prices of private jets. Anywhere from $6m to $45m, apparently. Then the upkeep is $100,000 a year on top of that.
Fuck that. Fuck private jets.
But who would we tell? Who could we tell? Who could we help and who would we just be enabling?
This went on, and on, and around our heads while Family Guy played in the background. It's the greatest tease of a conversation and plays around bigger and smaller beds than ours, the country over, the continent over, one year to another...
The changed lives. The invasions of privacy. The electric gates for the really big money. The stuff begetting stuff. The 'never forgetting where or what we came from.'
Anyway, she won a fiver and privately cussed me this morning, rolling over for my second sleep.