How to spend £10,000 a month...

The baby needs new shoes, the bank is on your back because your overdraft is overwhelming, the wife's hinting about a new winter coat, your working suit is becoming shinier than a schoolboy's scrubbed face and, with a shudder, you suddenly realise there are fewer than, oh, 90 shopping days to Christmas.

And the coffers are as empty as a politician's election promise.

So that's when your thoughts turn to dreams - dreams of winning a large wedge. There's always the National Lottery, of course. Yeah, I hear you - dream on.

Far be it from me to promote gambling or attempt to burnish false hopes. Statistically, you probably are more likely to be struck by a spear of lightning than you are to hit the Lottery jackpot.

So no, it probably won't be you. Or me. But it will be someone, and we can always dream, can't we? Besides, if you ain't in, you can't win.

There's more than one way of winning, of course.

Lottery organisers Camelot are set to launch a new scratchcard game called Payback 2000 and if you win that, you win £10,000 a month for two years.

Imagine, eh? A disposable monthly income of 10K. You could, for example, blow 60 per cent on women/men, 30 per cent on booze - and waste the rest. But seriously, folks, how might we spend ten grand a month? It was with this in mind that I accepted Camelot's offer to have what they describe as "the winning experience" - a day floating around Oxford playing Fantasy Filthy Rich Bloke.

This is a diary of what you could get up to, given the funds. 10am: Arrive at top hairstylists Toni and Guy for haircut by scissor ace Jon.

I am to be accompanied on my excursion by Camelot's Amanda White, part of whose job it is to present winners with the big cheques, Nicola Cain from Camelot's PR company Harrison Cowley, and Oxford Mail photographer Jon Lewis.

The salon staff lose no time in draping me in a black, cloak-like arrangement and my hair is washed, conditioned and patted dry before master craftsman Jon gets to work with the tools of his trade.

Meanwhile, snapper Jon has gone next door to Victoria Wine to "borrow props". They turn out to be a champagne flute and a jeroboam of Moet (that'll be £130, please, sir) - which is, alas, a dummy. But if you had the cash, you really could swill champers at the crimpers.

And you really could afford a stylish cut from someone as good as Jon.

£36? Bah! Mere pocket money. A buzz has gone round the salon and as we prepare to move on, a stylist runs up to me and asks, breathlessly, "How much did you win?" If only... 11am: And so we stroll round the corner to Cornmarket and visit Austin Reed, gentlemen's outfitters to the Prince of Wales, no less.

Deputy manager Bryn Hawkes shows me upstairs, where he hands me a rather classy three-button sports jacket in pure new wool to try on.

At £199, it's not going to break the bank, but with another 9,000-odd quid to spend in a month, a complete new wardrobe would be the order of the day. "We'd start with the major stuff," says Bryn.

I ask him, if an obviously wealthy customer was hell-bent on buying something which clearly didn't suit him, would he be honest and tell them?

"Of course," he replies in mild horror. "Our reputation would be on the line. We don't want people saying, 'That's an awful jacket - where did you buy it?' to our customers, because when he told them, the next thing they'd say would be, 'We'll never go there, then'."

But I'd go back there - especially armed with a gold Amex. 11.25am: Speaking of gold, it's time to consider an expensive trinket for the lady in my life. Into Turl Street, then, and a visit to Rowell & Son, where all that glisters is most certainly gold.

Or diamonds. Or any other precious gem you could think of.

Assistant Mary Faulkner swiftly produced an eye-popping,18-carat, diamond-set line bracelet, which was indeed a thing of beauty and would no doubt prove a joy for ever to my other half. Provided, of course, I was prepared to shell out a cool £6, 690. Amanda and Nicola seem impressed. 11.45am: As we move on to our next port of call, Amanda tells me some stories about people who have won big on the Lottery.

We move up the street and a gang of scaffolders begins wolf-whistling. "See?" says blonde Amanda with a grin, "your new haircut's working already..."

11.50am: Ducker & Son is where the well-heeled come to become well-heeled - and soled. Inside the shop, the potent smell of leather is almost overpowering.

Master shoemaker George Purves explains what would be needed to sort me out with a nice, handmade pair of black Oxfords, and a couple of pairs of nice loafers for the weekend. "First, we'd need to measure your feet when you were wearing the sort of socks you would be with your new shoes. We'd fit a pattern to eight areas of your foot and there would be other fittings and a last would be made."

It's a meticulous process involving 50 hours' work spread over a 12 to 15-week period. But the second time I wanted a pair of shoes, it'd just be a case of picking up the phone and requesting, say, a spiffing pair of brogues.

Look along the line of lasts in Ducker & Son and you notice some famous feet, including those of shy comedians and prominent Oxford dons. But you don't need to be famous to come here. You just need a thousand quid for a pair of total handmades, or around £750 for those part-made by machine.

But then, as my sainted granny used to say, "there's no such thing as a cheap pair of shoes".

I resolve to return, if ever Dame Fortune chucks a few serious sovs my way.

11.50am: Since the idle rich have plenty of time on their hands, a quality timepiece is clearly a necessity.

In Oxford's Covered Market, jeweller John Gowing is the place to go for such an item.

Manager Andrew Hill allows me to try on three very expensive watches, including that badge of the nouveau riche, a Rolex. The weight of it feels like a shackle on my hand. If this was for real, I don't think I'd have a Rolex. So vulgar, my dear.

1pm: All this fantasy shopping has worn us out, so we stroll up to Brown's restaurant for a decent lunch.

I opt for the cream of vegetable soup with Parmesan, followed by the kind of luscious venison steak that makes you realise why Prince John used to have all that trouble with poachers. Strong coffee and a decent cognac finish things off rather nicely. During our meal, Amanda speaks amusingly of her big winners, including the multi-millionaire who couldn't be bothered to come and pick up his £200,000 cheque.

"To be perfectly honest, Amanda," he drawled, "it's hardly worth it."

I don't know whether to smile or spit, but as Amanda points out, this sort of money is life-enhancing, rather than life-changing.

But, I think, "I could get used to living like this."

Dream on.

Converted for the new archive on 30 June 2000. Some images and formatting may have been lost in the conversion.