After the Dream

The journalist turns to camera: "I'm here with Terry Russell, the farmer who shot to fame last year when he became the single largest winner on Britain's National Lottery."

The shot widens to reveal a tanned middle-aged man in deck shoes and crumpled shorts, lounging in a deckchair.

"So, Terry, you said recently you didn't think winning the lottery has changed you?"

"Not really, no."

"No major lifestyle alterations?"

The journalist smiles archly to camera. Terry scratches his bare chest and looks around.

"I still live on a pig farm –"

"In the South of France."

"Well, yes, the weather's nicer and the land's cheaper. I'm still up at the crack of dawn every day with the pigs."

As if the pigs have heard their cue, a couple of grunts come from off-camera.

"What, so, you're still farming for a living, producing meat?" asks the journalist.

Terry runs his hand through his greying hair, knocking his sunglasses askew.

"No," he admits. "They reckon we should all be eating less meat anyway. Climate change and that."

After the Dream

The journalist smiles tightly.

"What then?" she persists. "Entering competitions? Are these a rare French breed?"

"French?" Terry sits upright in his deckchair. "Good lord no, these are British pigs. All certified, they've been transported from home."

"There are those who say the crating and –"

"Crating?"

Terry stands and the camera follows as he approaches a saddleback sow curled in the shade of a fence. He bends to scratch it behind the ears.

"Fancy thinking I'd put you in a crate, Princess." He turns back to the journalist. "They came with me."

"With..?"

She glances at the camera, or the person behind it, seeking guidance.

"In the motorhome," Terry says.

"Motorhome."

"That's right."

The camera follows Terry as he potters about his domain. A dozen pigs with a couple of different marking patterns doze under awnings or snuffle in short grass. Round the corner of a barn, Terry stops before a small swimming pool and scratches the back of his head.

"I mean," he says, "it's only fair. They did pick the winning numbers."

After the Dream

"I'm sorry," the journalist says, hurrying into shot. "Did you say the pigs picked your lottery numbers?"

"I had the field divided into squares, it's all to do with where they sat down of an afternoon." Terry sits at the edge of the pool and takes his shoes off, dangling his feet in the water. "So it was only fair."

"I see." The journalist grins. "And as a reward they don't get eaten –"

"They're intelligent animals, you know."

"And you get a swimming pool."

"I can't swim."

Terry looks off-camera and clicks his tongue. A young pig races into shot and launches itself into the pool, drenching both Terry, who doesn't seem to notice, and the journalist who doesn't leap far enough back.

"It's too hot for them," says Terry. "I might move back home."

"Terry Russell, thank you for being on After The Dream."

Fade to black.