The Millionaire Versions of Me

Like most people, I occasionally become a millionaire in my head.

Sometimes I've won the lottery.

Sometimes I've won one of those enormous Omaze houses worth four million pounds and immediately have to work out what on earth I'm going to do with it.

Would I move into it?

Would I sell it?

Would I rent it out?

Would I let my friends use it?

Would I actually want to live in a four-million-pound house, or would I spend six months wandering around it thinking, This is lovely, but where the fuck is everything?

I've spent quite a lot of imaginary money over the years.

Although, actually, I know exactly how much money we're talking about.

£7.5 million.

That's my number.

Not five million.

Not ten million.

Seven and a half.

For some reason, £7.5 million has lodged itself permanently in my head as the number.

One day, I tell myself, I will be the proud, proud, proud, proud owner of £7.5 million.

I'm already preparing for it.

In my living room is a picture I made that was actually supposed to go in my kitchen because I matched it to the kitchen cupboards.

It says:

Seven-figure kind of vibe.

That's what I'm trying to hold onto.

Seven-figure kind of vibe.

How the £7.5 million is actually going to arrive, I have absolutely no idea.

I don't play the lottery, which admittedly isn't helping my chances of winning it.

I haven't entered one of those house competitions for months.

But I don't really think about the how.

There's a woman I've seen talking about manifestation whose approach is essentially:

Fuck the how.

And I quite like that.

I'm not interested in working out how the money gets from wherever it currently is to my bank account.

I just have this strange feeling in my bones that one day it will happen.

That I'm ready for it.

That I'm ready for the challenge of having that much money and seeing what I could do with it.

Universe, if you're listening, I would like it noted that I am available.

Because there isn't just one millionaire version of me.

There are several.

And I've met most of them already.

One of them immediately starts buying houses.

Not mansions, though.

Interestingly, when I imagine being extraordinarily wealthy, I don't particularly want an enormous house.

I want little houses in beautiful places.

I want a house in the woods.

A proper forest retreat.

Off-grid where possible, running on solar energy, surrounded by trees.

There would be fires and blankets and enormous windows and somewhere outside to sit amongst the trees.

Just me, Ste, Halle, Nell and the dogs disappearing into the woods whenever we wanted.

And then I'd have another one by the sea.

A cottage rather than some enormous glass mansion hanging off a cliff.

Secluded.

Quiet.

But absolutely full of windows.

Mountains and mountains of light coming through.

I love the sea.

I love the woods.

Apparently £7.5 million Fran doesn't want to choose between them.

She just buys both.

I'd move between them throughout the year.

Not one for summer and one for winter.

I'd want stormy days beside the sea and scorching summer afternoons underneath the trees.

I'd want all of it.

And I think I'd stay in the UK.

Whenever I've imagined having lots of money, I've thought perhaps I'd have houses all over the world.

But when I really think about it, I'm not sure I would.

I don't actually want to leave.

Maybe we'd have somewhere near Ste's mum and dad if they wanted a place in Spain.

I'd buy them somewhere beautiful where they could retire, and then naturally I'd have to buy the house next door so we could visit.

This becomes a recurring problem in my imaginary property portfolio.

Because I'd buy my friends Dom and Rob a house too.

Somewhere beautiful.

And then I'd buy the house next door.

Apparently I don't want an empire.

I want neighbours.

And I'd keep this house.

That surprised me.

We live in a hundred-year-old Victorian end terrace, and I'd transform the inside of it.

Moroccan.

Grecian.

Mediterranean.

Beautiful minimalist rooms.

Four-poster beds.

A steam room and sauna just off the bedroom.

A huge bathroom with a double shower and enough room to get frisky in there should the opportunity arise.

Outside would be a garden that felt like a retreat in itself.

Vines.

Tiny lights.

Beautiful seating.

An outdoor kitchen.

Hot tub.

Sauna.

Plunge pool.

Little corners to disappear into.

The living room would become an enormous cinema room for sprawling around watching films.

Everything would feel warm.

Everything would feel peaceful.

Everything would feel safe.

And after spending an obscene amount of money making it beautiful, I wouldn't Airbnb it.

I wouldn't make it earn its keep.

I'd turn it into a sanctuary.

My children could live here when they're older.

Maybe it could be their first home together.

If they went to university, they could live here. If they didn't, they could still use it while they worked out what adulthood looked like.

Eventually, it would belong to them.

Until then, friends and family could use it.

Someone needs a weekend away from their husband?

Come here.

Someone needs a weekend away from their wife?

Keys are in the door.

Teenager needs some breathing room from their parents?

Come and stay.

Someone is grieving?

Exhausted?

Overwhelmed?

Needs three days in which absolutely nobody asks them to do anything?

Use the house.

Maybe Sarah next door would look after it when we weren't there.

Maybe she'd use it herself.

And if it wasn't being used like that, I'd love to give it temporarily to a woman fleeing domestic abuse.

Here.

Have somewhere safe.

Stay until you can work out what comes next.

Then, when my daughters eventually need it, it becomes theirs.

I wouldn't want the house to make money.

I'd want it to be useful.

There would, of course, be some entirely selfish spending.

I would absolutely have a cleaner.

And a cook.

Immediately.

Possibly before I've even told Ste we've got the money.

There are things I would happily continue doing for the rest of my life.

Cleaning the bathroom isn't one of them.

I'd have a gym at home.

I'd have an art studio where Halle and Nell and I could make an enormous mess creating things.

I'd get myself a Land Rover.

I'd buy the most magnificent camper van I could find, big enough for the four of us and the dogs, and we'd disappear in it for a year.

And I would finally sort my wardrobe out.

Not designer clothes.

Not handbags.

Not jewellery.

I'm really not bothered about any of that.

I'd find somebody brilliant who could help me build a wardrobe that looked completely like me.

A little bit witch.

A little bit hippie.

Beautiful fabrics.

Things that felt distinctive.

Clothes that somehow managed to show my entire personality before I'd even opened my mouth.

I don't particularly want a private jet either.

First class will do.

I don't want to become unreasonable.

And strangely, I don't imagine becoming a millionaire and changing the way I look either.

There isn't a millionaire body waiting somewhere in my imagination.

Yes, I'm overweight.

More than a bit, probably.

But I don't dream about £7.5 million arriving and immediately booking myself in for a nip and tuck.

I don't want a facelift.

I don't want a new face.

I don't want a new body.

I'd quite like the one I've already got to be healthy.

I'd have the time and resources to look after myself properly.

I'd buy the supplements I really wanted without standing there working out which ones I could justify.

I'd have good food available.

I'd have my gym.

I'd walk.

I'd swim.

I'd move.

I'd rest.

I'd have the time to pay attention to my body instead of trying to replace it.

And if something needed looking at, I'd be able to get it looked at.

But I wouldn't want £7.5 million to slowly transform me into somebody I didn't recognise.

I'd still want my face.

My body.

My imperfections.

Me.

Just hopefully healthier.

And preferably wearing an excellent witchy dress.

But eventually, all my imaginary spending seems to start going in the same direction.

Outwards.

Once I've got enough that Ste, the girls and I are secure, I start looking around.

Natalie and her mum, Jennifer, are getting a good chunk.

Nat wants to travel the world with her mum and become a travel writer.

So go.

I'd help her create the business.

Travel.

Write.

See what happens.

Emily gets money because I'd love to give her the opportunity to change direction and build the wellbeing business I know she wants.

Dom and Rob get their house.

My brother and his family would be looked after.

My niece and nephew would have money put away.

Halle and Nell would each have £500,000 sitting in accounts, gathering interest and waiting for them.

Not because I want them to do nothing.

Quite the opposite.

I'd want them to know that they could try things.

Build something.

Travel.

Take a risk.

Leave something that made them unhappy.

Start again.

I'd put money away for Sam's children too.

Maybe £50,000 each.

Their mum isn't here to do all the things she might have wanted to do for them.

If I suddenly had more money than I needed, how could I not think of them?

There are people I don't even speak to anymore who would probably find mysterious money appearing.

People I've loved.

People I still love from a distance.

People who have travelled through my life and left something behind.

They wouldn't need to know it was me.

Actually, I'd prefer that they didn't.

Because I wouldn't want:

I can't possibly take this.

No, honestly.

I couldn't.

You must.

None of that.

I'd want to quietly put something wonderful into somebody's life and disappear.

Anonymous cheque.

Through the door.

Gone.

Enjoy it.

And then I'd start having ideas.

This is where giving me £7.5 million becomes potentially dangerous.

I'd put money into grassroots community projects, particularly around Greater Manchester.

I've worked around homelessness and domestic abuse, and for a long time I've imagined that if I had enough money, those would be the areas I'd want to help.

For a while I thought I might start a school. A proper one, forest-based, run by teachers who actually loved nature and science and wanted children to feel it rather than just learn it.

I'm not sure I would, actually. Not a whole school. That feels like a different life, one I'm not sure I want.

But the more I think about it, the more I want to go further back than the school idea too.

Before the homelessness.

Before the crisis.

Before somebody is sitting in a flat they don't know how to manage with bills they don't understand and absolutely no idea what they're doing.

I'd create something for young people.

A proper life-skills programme.

Maybe six weeks.

Maybe eight.

Somewhere young people could actually learn how to live independently.

Cooking.

Cleaning.

Laundry.

How to pay a bill.

How to understand money.

How to budget.

How to manage a tenancy.

How to look after a home.

How to feed yourself properly.

All the deeply unglamorous things that become incredibly important when suddenly nobody else is doing them for you.

But it wouldn't just be practical.

There would be mental-health support.

Self-esteem.

Yoga.

Understanding yourself.

Looking after yourself.

Learning when to ask for help.

I'd want young people leaving it feeling:

I can actually do this.

And somewhere amongst all this, I'd probably open a café run by witches.

Obviously.

Herbs hanging everywhere.

Beautiful teas.

A little coven running it.

Witches' brews.

And then I'd probably decide nobody should have to pay for them.

So my imaginary witch café has an absolutely catastrophic business model.

Luckily, I'm a millionaire.

And God, would I travel.

I'd take Ste and the girls everywhere.

I'd go back to Borneo.

I'd show Halle and Nell the orangutans.

I'd take them to Turtle Island.

We'd go on safari in Africa.

We'd see wildlife.

Foxes.

Owls.

Turtles.

Everything.

I'd go back to Hawaii and properly learn Lomi Lomi massage again with a kumu.

I'd go to NASA.

And because apparently Millionaire Me has also acquired enormous confidence, I'd be trying to arrange the kind of NASA experience where somebody eventually has to say:

Madam, you absolutely cannot go in there.

I'd want my children around interesting people.

Scientists.

Naturalists.

Artists.

Inventors.

People who understand the world and are completely obsessed with some tiny corner of it.

Halle would absolutely love to do science experiments with Mark Rober.

And I'd quite like David Attenborough to come round for a cup of tea.

I appreciate £7.5 million doesn't actually give me control of David Attenborough's diary.

But Universe, while you're sorting everything else, see what you can do.

I want the girls to see what's possible.

To meet people who make them think:

I could do something like that.

And then go and invent their own version.

But perhaps the strangest millionaire version of me is the one living an entirely ordinary Tuesday several years after the money arrived.

There's no chauffeur waiting outside.

I'm not dripping in diamonds.

I'm not wandering around an enormous mansion ringing a bell for breakfast.

Actually, I might have the silk pyjamas.

But otherwise, it's remarkably familiar.

I'd wake up without rushing.

There would be food in the house.

Nobody would be panicking about where we needed to be.

I'd still home educate Halle and Nell.

I'd still write Wonderment.

I'd still have projects.

I'd check in on whatever schemes I'd inevitably started.

I'd make things.

I'd spend time with my family.

I'd go outside.

And at some point, I'd probably end up in a hammock.

Someone else would have cleaned.

Someone else could cook.

The bills would be paid.

There would be money put away.

If we woke up and decided we wanted to go somewhere, we could go.

If I needed the woods, we'd go to the woods.

If I needed the sea, we'd go to the sea.

And then I asked myself one final question.

If somebody gave me £7.5 million tomorrow, but nobody could ever know I had it, would anything change?

No.

I'd still want Ste, the girls and the dogs around me.

I'd still end up in a hammock.

Only someone else would have cleaned the bloody bathroom.

In my living room, the picture would still say:

Seven-figure kind of vibe.

Universe, if you're listening — I can handle £7.5 million.