The lady at the post office said she couldn’t help, and to call the lottery HQ and they might know how to access the money, but it was out of her hands. She handed back the ticket and said to mind it because that’s the only proof we had of the winnings. So the oul fella took it and put it in his top pocket along with three vaping pipes and a makeshift plastic wallet with an elastic band around it and we left.

            Later, the lad from Lotto Headquarters said: ‘We’re going to have to get security to take a look at this. Can we call you back later?’

            I said sound, and hung up.

            The oul fella said, security? This is getting serious.

            And it was. There had been mentions of duplicate tickets, inexplicable computer glitches, ghosts in the machine, but no firm explanation as to why the astronomical sum couldn’t be paid out. A dark cloud was casually forming over the credibility of the sacred lotto institution and the threat of scandal, like an opportunistic cat, was licking herself as she waited for the outcome.

            Your man’s name was Wayne. The Dublin number rang, big shtuff, introduced himself, said they had looked into it, and we needed to go back to the shop where the ticket was bought and ask for Ray.

             Ray would know what to do.

            I asked him what happened in the first place.

            He said he was unsure, but it appears the girl behind the desk scanned the ticket too many times and the machine got thick and said it was already paid, even though it wasn’t. And was the ticket safe?

            I told him it was, and he said to make sure to mind it, because it was valuable, and remember to ask for Ray.

             There, we parked discreet in case there was a crowd. Press, radio stations, Ray holding a big huge check with the bottles of Champagne ready. Thankfully there was nobody waiting, probably because the 20 minute summer was over and it was lashing big golf balls of rain.

            Inside, no surprise party, no paparazzi. Just the girl at the desk, and she didn’t look like someone called Ray, so we asked if Ray was about. She frowned sympathetically and said he was on his lunch, but maybe she could help? Paddy, the oul fella, told her the story. Never renowned for brevity, it took him about ten minutes, and a long queue had formed of old ladies with huge trolleys of shopping and cement covered Polish lads trying to pay for cans. Eventually the woman that wasn’t Ray blinked before she asked: So the ticket didn’t pay out?

            Exactly.

            And you have it here with you?

            We do.

            Paddy took it out and handed it over. She held it delicately, holy grail job, priceless artefact, and scanned it through. Never one to let a grudge go, the machine said the same, already paid out, don’t be annoying me, and the mystery remained unsolved. The not Ray woman, we’ll call her Mary, decided to talk to another manager over by the bananas. The Polish lads were delighted, rolled their eyes and shifted the weight of the drink from arm to the other. After a few minutes of discussion,  Mary came over and asked:  Do you ye know how much the ticket should pay out?

            We gave it a few seconds before dropping the nuke.

            Then Paddy said: A fiver. Two Numbers and a Lucky Star.

            Five euro? She asked, like when the barman forgets to charge for half the order.

            She walked over to the till, took out a fiver, said here, give me the ticket, and we’ll sort it out later when Ray gets back. Meanwhile, we’ll pay it and let ye go. So we took the money and handed her back the ticket and she went off to take care of the Polish lads.

            Drama over, no champagne, no big cheque, no RTE News microphones screaming for a quote.

            What’ll we do now, I asked Paddy.

            Dunno, he said, might buy a EuroMillions for tonight.