I dreamt I won the lottery last night. I was in a public toilet far from home.  My tatty trousers half-mast, I was listening to ‘Please Release Me, Let Me Go’ on the speaker above me. I sat chin-in-hand waiting for the train to come. I kept thinking about the bills, my girlfriend and what I knew we both wanted from life, but most of all, what it would cost.

I scratched off the Lotto winning numbers, ‘oh, my f…… god!’ I was so excited. I exploded out of the toilet cubicle holding my winning ticket aloft with the fierce-fast-feet of my denim trouser-ankle-chains shuffling beneath me. I sped out into the basin-area of the gent’s lav.

I skidded on a dropped sandwich across the tiled floor. I banged my head on the condom machine and pirouetted drowsily among the turned-and-terrified faces of the still-unbuttoned men at the urinals, as I grabbed at them for balance like a saucy drunken whore desperately trying to hold on and woozily clambering for my lost dignity.

Too late. I tripped on my trouser-traps and stumbled into another cubicle, clunking my head on the cistern. I drowned that day, headfirst in the toilet bowl. My mooning arse upended. A deathly silence and dark shadows fell across the faces of the men in the public toilet.

The bewilderment of those who witnessed this bittersweet toilet ballet, punctuated only by the vocal strains of Engelbert Humperdinck, would always haunt them. Along with the tragic lonely echoes of a constantly-repeating sensor-flush toilet.

Money isn’t everything.

We hope you have enjoyed reading this article from Hastings Independent. The future of this volunteer led, non-profit publication would be far more secure with the aid of a small donation. It only takes a minute and we would be very grateful.