Vicky Ewan: A win on the lottery brings fringe benefits

I sometimes amuse myself with imagining what I would do should I suddenly come into a life-changing amount of money.

I imagine I’m not alone in this whimsical daydreaming; the birth of the National Lottery in autumn 1994 suddenly catapulted the possibility of a spectacular windfall in the average person’s life to within the realms of possibility, and, despite a steady decline in ticket sales over the past three decades, its enduring popularity amongst a significant portion of the population is testament to a persistent belief that, in fact, as early publicity alluringly announced, It could be you.

Of course, it’s not likely to be me as I rarely indulge in a flutter, particularly since the price hike which saw a doubling of the original ticket cost some years ago; every so often, however, when the jackpot is irresistibly valuable, I will have a punt.

Financial freedom doesn’t come solely from a source such as this, I acknowledge; there are other ways to come into significant sums: bequests, marrying well (a return to the time of Jane Austen may be helpful here) or a certain skill or good fortune with the stock market (the latter being, again, nothing from which I am primed to benefit). But the outlet isn’t the crucial thing, ultimately, so let’s just suspend disbelief, dispense with the semantics, and assume that I have, at my disposal, an exorbitant fortune. How should I respond?

I like to let scenarios play out in my head. This takes little time, however, as I simply cannot fathom a world in which I have unlimited fiscal power. But I don’t mean to be blasé - I am hugely lucky, I know, to be devoid of serious worries about money; it’s horrifying to hear the harrowing testimonies from parents denying themselves meals in order to afford food for their offspring, or to learn about people forced to choose between heating and eating - and these situations are occurring in our own developed country; I cannot begin to comprehend how much more widespread and devastating the problems are in the poorer nations.

Those of us fortunate enough to be warm, fed, clothed, and housed throughout our lives should never take these states for granted. Still, for the purposes of this article, please overlook my theoretical avarice for an instant, and indulge this luxurious fantasy.

Once I have sorted the international economy and awarded all charities and good causes their due, and after I have satisfied the needs and desires of family and friends with unstinting generosity, naturally, my attention would turn to matters of a more personal bent.

Whilst reading a chapter from the book we’re currently enjoying to my young son one recent evening, I was quietly thrilled to feel him seize a stray lock of my hair and begin to comb it with his fingers.

I imagine there are many people who relish the experience of having their hair played with; there is something eminently soothing and relaxing in the intimate contact.

As a child, I succumbed to having my tresses managed with bad grace; my hair is thick and easily prone to knotting, and every stroke of the wide-toothed comb or natural bristle brush recommended for my recalcitrant locks had the potential to cause pinpricks of pain to sparkle across my scalp.

I tolerated the weekly routine of hair-washing and -plaiting with ill-concealed agitation, sat terse and squirming in front of Sunday evening television as my father eased the tangles from my mop and tamed my unruly mane into twin-braided submission.

How I regret my younger self’s indifference to such regular attention now! How I would sit as straight-backed and patient as an angel should someone be so frequently willing to minister to my coiffing needs!

Every so often, aware of the damage the practice yields and anxious to maintain a semblance of hair health, I ask my husband to run heated straighteners over my locks.

Despite the proximity of the searing metal plates to my ear, and the often-uncomfortable tugging of the comb’s teeth, the sensation of another person's hands on my hair is blissful.

And that, I think, would be the ultimate indulgence that my magnificent fortune could fund: the tireless attentions of a daily hair-caresser. You can keep your glitzy cars, your far-flung holidays and your fancy mansions; give me a team of people with infinite patience, well-muscled arms, and a nicely-pinned hairbrush, and unleash them daily upon my hair; money well spent indeed.