I’ll never forget the morning. You came to me with a problem. I was sleeping when you burst through my third floor window and took off not only your hat, but your wig. That’s how I knew it was serious.

“Mr Sprigg!” You said. No, actually, you shouted it into my left ear from a distance of one centimetre. If anything, it was the spittle that woke me before the sound. They say that spittle travels faster than the speed of sound, and I can now testify that they’re not wrong.

I’ve always been slow to wake, and I wasn’t ready for your problem. And my face was wet on the left side. Certainly, this wasn’t my kind of morning.

“What on earth is going on, Our Wyn Jones Our Son of the Gusty Lands? Please tell me this is worth my time,” I said with all the sternness of a corporal punishment advocate.

“Oh, it is, Mr Sprigg. I can assure you it is worth your time.”

“Well, get on with it then.”

For a moment, you just gawked at me. You’d always had one of those faces that made me wonder if this whole ‘life thing’ was worth the effort.

“The thing is, Mr Sprigg. The thing is…”

“What? What is the thing? Are you simple, son?”

“Well, Mr Sprigg – no I’m not simple. I passed my Welsh Baccalaureate – The thing is, you won the lottery last night, Mr Sprigg.”

“I what?”

“Well, Mr Sprigg. If you don’t mind me saying, you won the lottery.”

“I won the lottery?” I repeated, my voice rising into increasingly gleeful intonations with each syllable that passed my severely chapped lips.

“You did, sir. You did win the lottery. And a lot of lottery too, Mr Sprigg.”

“How much lottery?”

“Well, Mr Sprigg, sir. You won two hundred million.”

I sat there, among the bed covers, marinating in it. What does one do to respond to such news? Sing from the rooftops? Order a hooker? Strip to the socks and run through the streets with abandon?

It took me a while, but a reply I did muster.

“Well, Our Wyn Jones Our Son of the Gusty Lands, I don’t quite know what to say. I’m stunned. Stunned I say. I always knew I had genius in me, but it was yet to be realised.”

I stared into space, thinking. The first thing I would do with the money? I would purchase a chef and insist on shakshuka for every breakfast. But it was too soon for that. First, the logistics.

“Where is my family, Our Wyn Jones Our Son of the Gusty Lands? I need to inform them that my genius has finally matured into something useful.”

“Well, Mr Sprigg, that’s the other thing, sir.”

“What? What is the other thing?”

“Well, Mr Sprigg. I’m also here to tell you that we are holding your family hostage in a damp location. They are gagged and bound, but otherwise, they are well.”

“What do you mean? What are you saying?”

“Well, Mr Sprigg. Do you really wish for me to spell this out for you?”

“Spell out what?”

“Well, Mr Sprigg. We have your family, and we are prepared to do them serious harm.”

I wiped the spittle from the side of my face. I wasn’t a morning person, but Our Wyn Jones Our Son of the Gusty Lands had my attention. It’s funny really, all we actually need to wake up is more drama in our lives. Dare I say it, but with sufficient drama, we would all be morning people!

“All you have to do is sign over the lottery ticket to me,” Our Wyn Jones Our Son of the Gusty Lands continued. I sensed a nervousness in him, but maybe that was just his lack of brains. I stared at him. Could this be happening?

“We promise to take care of the money. And you get your family back, so it’s a win-win, Mr Sprigg, sir.”

Then, with all the surprise of an irregular bowel movement while out shopping for perfumes, I remembered that I’d recently read a book on negotiation. It had been written by an ex-fisherman with an eye for Swedish skirt, but it was an excellent read and this was the time to apply it. Usually my reading went to waste, so this was the one positive side effect of being blackmailed by the local idiot.

“Look, Our Wyn Jones Our Son of the Gusty Lands. Let’s not make life more difficult than it need be. Let’s not argue over spilt milk. Let us prove that man can be reasonable. Have you read Hegel?”

He shook his head.

“Not to worry,” I said. “If you leave me alone and release my family, I will send you on a super car experience.”

“What’s that, sir?”

“It’s lovely. They let you drive three super cars of your choosing around a racetrack.”

“How many laps?”

“Ten per car.”

“By myself?”

“No, you have a professional in the car with you. It’s a safety measure.”

Our Wyn Jones Our Son of the Gusty Lands grimaced.

“Let me think about it,” he said.

“Okay, son. You do that.”

“Yes, Mr Sprigg, sir.”

I smiled.

“Now go and fetch my porridge,” I said.

“Yes Mr Sprigg, sir.” He paused as he was leaving the bedroom. “What shall I tell your family, sir?”

“Well, tell them you’re thinking about it, Goddamit!”