New Statesman -- lottery novelist -- July 25 deadline
 

No 4285
By Leonora Casement
In the 1950s, we ran a competition in which we asked people to imagine how a well-known novelist would write about their hero or heroine winning the pools. We want you to think about how a novelist writing today would describe a character winning the lottery. Here’s Peter Sheldon’s D H Lawrence: “She watched from behind the lace curtains in Scargill Street as his black figure came shamblingly up the path from the Bottoms . . . Her hands tightened on the little envelope . . . She would not tell him yet, before he had had his supper . . .”
Max 150 words by 25 July comp@newstatesman.co.uk

'a novelist writing today' – some ambiguity there, surely? Lawrence was well dead by 1950, but I imagine that for the new comp. Vicky means 'a living, practising novelist'. Any thoughts?

I suppose she means a living novelist, which very much restricts the field, although I agree that it's ambiguous - it could mean 'how would Dickens describe a lottery winner if he were writing today?'

Do we know anyone who's on sufficiently good terms with Vicky to ask for clarification?

I can't say that I find the example given at all inspiring.

Which novelists writing today would be recognisable? Which novelists writing today does anybody read? Ruth Rendell? That Scots git who writes gloomy stuff set in Edinburgh?

OK, Brian - if your reading of the unpunctuated instructions is allowed - I might try...


George MacDonald Fraser

Hauled from the comforts of the ladies’ section of his retirement home’s Turkish Baths, where that snivelling ninny Blair’s envoy had found him, and thrust apparelled in extremely unbecoming, muddy looking workmen’s overalls, which appeared to be all that contemporary Field Marshals were allowed – no wonder the pathetic buggers couldn’t pull wenches even in Kabul’s most indulgent bazaar – Duke Flashman, VC and bars, squinted over the silk cushions and past the gossamer of this accommodating dusky lady’s yashmak at the screen of his scrambled satellite telephone thingy. '2' pills – still there and functioning, '11' – length of old man, not bad, age considered, '38-27-43' – best ever since Lola Montez – and '54' most in one night with little Narreeman. Good God! They’d come up. His Highness deflated. How much? Squillions of Europoly mazoomahs. Might not look heroic, but why not just buy the Taliban and their opium? Now, there was an idea.

Oh well, I've already done this.

Jane Austen

It is a truth universally acknowledged that a man with a lottery ticket must be in want of a fortune.
‘My dear Mr. Clarke,’ said his lady to him one morning, ‘have you seen your post today?’
Mr. Clarke replied that he had not.
Mrs. Clarke handed him a sheaf of envelopes.
‘There’s one from Mr. Dedicoat at Lottery HQ,’ Mr. Clarke exclaimed. ‘It would appear that our numbers have come up.’
‘Have they indeed?’
‘Five, six, fourteen, twenty, twenty-one and forty-seven. And the bonus ball too. Now there’s a fine thing.’
‘Indeed it is, Mr. Clarke.’
When the first tumult of joy was over, Mr. and Mrs. Clarke turned at once to the matter of how their one hundred pounds might be spent.
‘We could marry Fanny and Susannah,’ said Mrs. Clarke.
‘Yes,’ said her husband. ‘And buy a helicopter.’
‘A what?’

Oh dear, Nigel, I hadn't seen that George MacDonald Fraser had died. The Flashman books were very diverting. Perhaps since it was only a few years ago, you'll get away with your amusing piece.

As for Jane Austen, Rob, I fear she will only make it if interpretation b) is the right one.

Damn the rubric, here's Ivy Compton Burnett

'It appears that I have won the lottery.' Hereward Attwater announced to his family over breakfast.
'I do not like the ambiguity in that sentence.' said Letitia, his wife.
'The enormity and improbability of the eventuality seem to conspire against my believing it.'
'Are we to be rich, Father?' Eve, the youngest of the children, asked.
'We are already that,' admonished Letitia, 'but now we may be richer.'
'Then the change is not absolute, merely a matter of degree.'
'Nevertheless, the degree is not inconsiderable. I have checked my numbers against those listed in the newspaper and found that they correspond exactly.'
'It would be vulgar to wonder how much was the prize.'
'No, Letitia, it would be human to wonder. It would be vulgar to ask. Besides, my sharing news of my good fortune should not be mistaken for an intention to share that fortune.'

Very good, Adrian! It strengthens my intention never to read Ivy Compton-Burnett.

Thanks for the compliment, Brian. I actually rather enjoy Ivy Compton Burnett's novels; I think it is easier to parody or pastiche writers you like, which is probably why I can't think of single one writing today worthy of use in this particular comp.