Heavenly visions of winning the Big One
18th August, 2006

Martin Luther King had a dream that one day his children would not be judged by the colour of their skin. Dad had a dream last week in which he won Gold Lotto. While admittedly not as worthy a dream as Dr King's, it was nevertheless significant, as any of the hundreds of thousands of folk who buy Lotto tickets each week will attest. The particular significance of this dream was that he also dreamt the five winning numbers. Yes, I know, you need six numbers to win Lotto, a fact that did not escape me when Dad related his dream. "Do you remember the five numbers?" I asked gently, oozing filial concern as my eyes filled with visions of armoured trucks bulging with dollars pulling up outside the family home.    "Of course," he said, giving me his "how did I have such an idiot son?" look. Then he recited the numbers.    "And the sixth?" I asked, leaning forward. "What was the sixth?"    "I told you," he said. "There was no bloody sixth. I woke up before I could dream the sixth."    "Are you sure?" I asked.    "Of course," he said. "I've thought of nothing else for the past two days."    "We could take your five numbers with every other remaining number," I said. "That would probably cost about $40. We can't lose!"    "But we don't know which week," my father pointed out, a detail I had overlooked.    "You didn't dream a date?" I asked hopefully.    "No," said Dad. It's a terrible thing to know five of the six-number combination that will win Lotto sometime between now and the year 3000 and not know the sixth number or the date of the draw.    "Has it occurred to either of you that it may just be a stupid dream and that the numbers will never get up?" asked my mother, heresy to any buyer of Lotto tickets.    "It's an omen!" we chorused.    "God doesn't give you a dream with five numbers without expecting you to get straight up to the newsagency and do something about it. It's a test of faith," I said. "If we don't buy tickets, it would be like saying we didn't believe in God." This diversion into theology caught Mum off guard. She'd never seen her faith in terms of Lotto. "It's $23 million in a few weeks' time. We'd all be set up," said Dad, his eyes taking on the beatific glow that suffuses all punters when they know they're going to win the Big One. "I won second prize in the Golden Casket a long time ago," said Dad. "I can still remember the winning number. And you know what? The next week the same number won first prize and I didn't bother to double up and take it again." That must have been 15 years ago and he was still berating himself for his lack of foresight.    "You're sure you can't remember the sixth number?" I said.    "Absolutely," he said, his voice dripping despair. I have a lot of dreams, all in brilliant, wide-screen technicolor, and they never involve winning money. In them I am usually travelling, frequently on a ship. Brad Pitt is never one of my fellow passengers because he is busy making love to most of the women in Brisbane over the age of consent. Ask any woman about her dreams and it's almost certain that, in the past month, she's had it off with Brad Pitt. The man's a machine. If he were as active in real life as he is in Dreamland, he'd have shagged himself to death years ago. No wonder poor Jennifer Aniston left him. How could you stay married to a man who every night is bonking half the women on the planet? It disturbs me that it doesn't seem to bother them that while Brad's having his way with them, he's also having it away with the woman next door. Let them have Brad. My father and I have more important dreams. We need that sixth number and have taken to putting Lotto entry forms under our pillows in the hope that it will drift into our brains. Laugh if you will. But the great Lord of Lotto moves in mysterious ways.

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