Gambling has never been a hobby, or indeed a problem of mine. But when you have a recurring dream about the exact name of the Royal baby, well it has got to mean something, doesn’t it? It’s got to be worth a flutter. I thought as much, and thus at 8.50am found myself in the lager-reeking depths of a particularly sordid William Hill placing a bet on the Duchess’s spawn, or should I say “George Phillip Arthur Henry Wales.”
I wasn’t the only clientele in the establishment, and got rather a bemused look from the three middle-aged men hunched over the ‘fruit machine,’ as I walked in suited and booted. Equally bemused was the man behind the counter, as I pulled out a £20 and tried to put on my wager.
‘A dream like this one, as clear as this one, must be more than subconscious ramblings, it must be prophetic,’ I thought as I handed the note under the security glass and started to plan my exotic retreat that I was guaranteed to afford with my healthy winnings. But then, then I was told:
“You can’t bet, you might know. Bets are closed.”
“But I don’t know, I promise I don’t know, how could I know? No-one knows.”
Alas, my 10 minute debate – which towards the end was more of a plea – fell on deaf ears and he, they, William Hill would not take my bet. So now I ask you, anyone – can you place the bet for me? I’ll pay you the £20…
Alright fine, I’ll consider splitting the winnings – but you owe me!