There was a raffle yesterday; it was somewhere that shall remain nameless. I was asked to draw the (25, twenty-five, XXV, ٢٥, vingt-cinq, yes five times five) tickets in front of a small audience with a vested interest.
I called on the children to assist, the eldest wisely backed off, getting a clear sense of the pressure of the situation just as it was dawning on me. This left me and the seven year-old to deal with the imposter called luck, which, as any regular readers may know, is mere probability taken personally.
What this looks like on a Saturday afternoon at a charity Christmas Bazaar is a sea of faces staring, the majority being arranged rather more in line with accusation than expectation, as you and your offspring continue to frantically pull out tickets – without their names on…
It all got to me and I resorted to some violent shaking of the container of tickets in a desperate attempt to get to a ticket that would assuage the mob. This didn’t work either, one raffle-hopeful-but-slightly-indignant-personage just pointed out tightly that I was shaking tickets out on to the floor.
Where’s the Mayor when you need him?
Note to self: never again