Lottery Syndrome
It was the night of the cull and I was at home with the family. The doors were locked and I felt restless and on edge. It was raining outside: cool, dark. The curtains were drawn. The heating was on and everyone was on tenterhooks awaiting the lottery. The women were particularly tense. Jane was out in the hallway pacing the threadbare carpet between the front door and the stairs; Georgia was glued to her seat, chomping gum and staring wretchedly at her short, bitten nails; Angie was squatting...