YOU can always tell what sort of a week we've had by whether or not there's a lottery ticket on our coffee table on a Saturday night.

I'm not sure exactly what makes us think we stand the faintest chance of our numbers coming up when we've already had seven days of misery.

Maybe we're betting that statistically, our luck has got to change sometime, or maybe it's just proof that hope really does spring eternal in the human breast.

Whatever our subconscious reasoning, it's certainly true that me and the Other Half only seem to join the lotto ticket queue when the daily grind has ground us to a pulp.

Then, just for a few hours, we can dream that we have a magic wand to wave, that in one leap we can be free of all the clutter that drags at our heels.

If I'm the one who bought the ticket, I'll often put off the moment when I look up the numbers, just to prolong the feeling that I may have come up trumps.

I'm not sure that's 'thinking lucky', as the slogan has it. It's probably quite the reverse.

If the blues have an especially strong grip on us, we can spend a long time dreaming about how we would spend our fortune.

Generally, the discussion starts with one of those 'only joking... or am I?' wrangles over whether we would share our winnings with one another.

If that hasn't brought us to blows by teatime, we'll move on to the topic of what we would do with our winnings - and believe me, we've got plenty of ideas, none of which involve having a nice cup of tea and a sit down.

Personally, I am dumbfounded by people who say they wouldn't know what to do if they were suddenly made squillionaires.

And I despair when winners are interviewed and they declare: "Ooh, it won't change us. We might put a conservatory on the bungalow and go for a long weekend to Rhyl, but that's about it."

Are these people deranged? What on earth possessed them to go in for the lottery in the first place, if they have so little use for the cash that threatens to drown them?

If the existence of John Prescott hadn't already convinced you that the Good Lord likes a laugh, surely these winners more than prove the point.

Or if not them, how about the ones that turn out to be serial rapists/multiple love rats/tagged ASBO toe-rags for whom the prison gate is a revolving door?

What really amazes me, apart from all the stuff these winners have been up to, is the fact that they blithely fail to tick the box marked 'no publicity' when they win.

Do they think there really is honour among thieves? Do they think their pals will keep quiet out of decency and love for them, when they could be reaping their own little lotto windfalls by picking up the phone to The Sun?

Trouble is, even if you have no dirty linen you'd rather not wash in the tabloids, there are dilemmas to face if your lucky numbers are up.

Just how many people do you share your good fortune with? How do you keep your change of lifestyle discreet for those you'd rather did not know you've struck gold? What to do about all the begging letters?

Ooh, it's all a bit of a nightmare. Maybe it's better to stick with the ordinary life after all.

As if.

Updated: 09:14 Wednesday, February 16, 2005