What I’d Do If the Lottery Loved Me Back

Still not in therapy. Still buying lottery tickets like a toxic situationship I can’t quit.

I’m a recurrent player of the national lottery and Euromillions.

I don’t go full-blown superstition about it – I don’t have my “lucky numbers” or a talisman I rub before checking the results. But I do play.

Sometimes small amounts, sometimes when there’s big money to win.

And every single time, I let my imagination do its favorite cardio workout: sprinting toward the fantasy of what I’d do if the lottery ever decided to finally love me back.

Because that’s the thing about playing: the second you hand over your ticket, your brain is no longer in the same room.

You’re already somewhere else – already rich, already planning, already googling “Can you live full-time on a yacht without seasickness?”.

The Conversation That Sparked It

The other day, I was talking about this with someone. Not even a close friend, technically – she’s the girlfriend of one of my partner’s colleagues. But she’s great. The kind of person you meet and think, Oh, we could actually be friends if the logistics of adult life didn’t get in the way.

We were sipping wine, chatting, and she said without hesitation that if she ever won the lottery, she’d spend the money on designer clothes.

Prada, Gucci, Chanel, the whole parade. A wardrobe that could probably pay off someone’s mortgage.

And I remember smiling politely and thinking, Really? That’s your big dream?

I don’t mean it in a judgmental way. Okay, maybe a little judgmental. But also fascinated.

Because honestly? That would be the last thing on my list. I couldn’t care less about brands—especially the so-called “luxury” ones.

Fashion labels, diamonds, flashy cars – none of that makes my heart beat faster.

I’m not a “diamond girl”. I don’t dream about being photographed with a Birkin bag on my arm. If anything, I’d resent having to pick outfits every day that justify the price tag.

Imagine the stress of spilling red wine on a designer dress. I’d rather die in my cheap H&M jeans, thanks.

So no. If the lottery ever loved me back, here’s what I’d actually do.

Step One: Renovate My House

First order of business? Renovation.

Because right now, my house is… let’s say “full of potential”. Potential to swallow my weekends, my money, and my patience whole.

The kind of house that has character – by which I mean, creaking floorboards, random patches of mold, and bathrooms designed in the 1980’s by someone who hated joy.

I imagine starting with the basics: fixing the insulation so I don’t have to wear socks and a hoodie indoors in November, even with the heat on. Replacing those old Velux windows that make every rainstorm sound like a personal vendetta. Finally ripping out the carpets that should’ve retired decades ago.

And then, the fun stuff.

A kitchen that feels like it belongs in a cooking show, not a survival series. A bathroom with a walk-in shower – finally, no more wrestling with a shower curtain that sticks to your leg like it’s in love with you. Rooms that don’t look like they were decorated in a rush by someone who lost a bet.

And one more thing: a library. A proper one, with floor-to-ceiling shelves and a rolling ladder. I’m a slow reader, but I never stop buying books. My “to be read” pile is already monstrous. But I love the textures, the smells, the simple presence of them.

Owning a gigantic library would be my diamond necklace.

That’s the thing: people imagine lottery winners running straight to buy palaces or castles. I don’t need anything huge. I just want my current house to finally make sense – and maybe add one more place that feels like home.

Step Two: Buy a Place in London

After the dust settles (literally), I’d buy a place in London – my favorite city in the world.

But not just anywhere. A townhouse in Notting Hill – tall and narrow, stretching deep like a secret corridor, with a hidden patio and a little garden out back. That’s the dream.

Not a sterile penthouse, not some anonymous glass box. A home with personality, tucked in the city’s heart.

And when I’d go there, I wouldn’t be sipping cocktails in dim bars or parading through luxury shops.

I’d revisit old landmarks, the places that already feel like friends. The bridges, the museums, the streets where life hums at just the right pitch.

It wouldn’t just be a pied-à-terre. It would be an anchor in the city that feels most like mine.

Step Three: Hire All the Services

If there’s one thing I know about myself, it’s this: I’m not a stuff person. I’m more of a services person.

I don’t dream of a closet full of labels. I dream of never touching an ironing board again.

Honestly, I’d probably add more. If there’s a service that buys back my time, sign me up.

That’s what money means to me: not handbags, not fast cars. Hours. Freedom.

Step Four: The Yacht Fantasy

Okay, fine. I’d splurge on one thing.

A yacht.

Blame Victoria Beckham. I recently watched one of her Instagram stories of her family vacationing on a yacht, all smiles and tans and sea breezes, and I thought, Yes. That. Add to cart.

Not a ridiculous floating palace with helipads. Just something big enough to host a few “friends”, anchor off the coast of Italy, and feel like like is a movie for a week or two.

I picture mornings drinking coffee on deck, afternoons swimming in water so clear it looks like glass, evenings watching the horizon swallow the sun. A floating world where nothing else matters.

Would I probably get seasick? Sure. Would I care? Not really.

What I Wouldn’t DO

Here’s the part where people start side-eyeing me.

I wouldn’t give money to family and friends.

My partner says he would. That he’d share the wealth, give some to his parents, to his siblings, to his closest friends. And that’s fine for him. Generous, even. But me? No. Not a penny.

Does that make me a bad person? Maybe. Or maybe it just makes me someone who know what she wants.

Because here’s the truth: money and family/friends mix like Mentos and Coke. Explosively, and not in a good way.

My dad recently inherited a decent sum from a children great-aunt. Did he give any to me or my sister?

Not a dime.

Maybe he slipped something to my sister, I don’t know. But to me? Nothing. Not even a token. Not even to his grandson.

So no. If I win, I keep it. My house. My Notting Hill place. My services. My yacht. My books.

(They wouldn’t get the money, but they’d still get the dinners, the guest rooms, the yacht trips. Access without ownership.)

I might be selfish here, but after a lifetime of watching how money is hoarded, withheld, and weaponized, I’d choose myself.

The Psychology of playing

Sometimes I wonder is this ritual – buying tickets, making lists, planning imaginary renovations – isn’t about money at all.

Maybe it’s about permission.

Permission to dream about a life where the logistics don’t choke the joy out of everything.

Permission to imagine living without the weight of bills, repairs, schedules, and guilt.

Because when you strip it down, it’s not about millions. It’s about wanting space. Time. Breathing room. A life where things work.

In those daydreams, I’m not commuting, cleaning, running errands, falling asleep exhausted.

I’m writing, reading, drawing, painting, coloring… I’m listening to my favorite 90’s Spotify playlist and remembering what it feels like to take up space in my own life.

Would I still go to work? Honestly, it depends on the amount. If it’s small, I’d keep showing up.

But if it’s enough? No. I’d quit. No more deadlines, no more stress. Just passion projects, books, mornings that aren’t rushed, afternoons that belong to me.

And one more thing: I wouldn’t tell a soul. Not one person. Money changes people.

Suddenly friends become accountants, relatives become opportunists, strangers sense blood in the water.

No thank you. I’d keep it quiet, live quietly rich, and let people wonder why my hair always looks this good.

So if the lottery ever decides to love me back, you won’t see me on the cover of Vogue in Dior. You won’t see me dripping in diamonds or revving some sports car I can’t parallel park.

You’ll see me in my renovated house, or hiding out in a little Notting Hill garden, with nothing but books for company and silence as luxury. Or planning my first yacht trip, writing in the mornings, coloring in the afternoons, headphones blasting my teenage anthems.

And if anyone asks why I didn’t give a single cent to family or friends, I’ll just smile and say:

Because the lottery finally loved me back. And for once, I decided to love myself first.

See you in the next overshare

♡