It is a matter of believing in luck. Miss Blondie sitting excitedly beside me as we drove in my stylish Vauxhall Nova to St James said she was just always lucky – since birth. Such conviction surprised me. The myth of shaping one's own destiny or creating one's own luck is vaguely suspect. Surely just believing in luck cannot miraculously create it? It gets confusing - a bit like the chicken and egg. Which comes first, the lucky person or the luck? Need a bit of Dr Wiseman to set me straight. Or perhaps there is a gene out there – a lucky gene – some have it, some not.

All this lucky mantra tosh has been tried and tested. Before job interviews or screen tests I'd do an "I could be so lucky" Kylie singsong, complete with gyrating hip action, but it never seemed to work. I believed I was the luckiest of people even to have got that far, but it usually turned into a cock up - a careless stumble over the cameraman's cables at a screen test leading to an embarrassing embrace with the 4ft producer - or a piping hot spillage over my prospective boss's beige linen suit. Definitely a case of the Bridget Jones clumsy syndrome.

Growing up in London with a best friend who always got lucky haunts me to this day. It always bugged me. She was lucky in every way – boys, jobs, getting into parties and nightclubs - you name it, she got it. I stood by watching enviously as she sowed her own neat row of luck with every step. It is hard to forget her infamous prance through the VIP gates at Wimbledon as she masqueraded as Stefan Edberg's girlfriend, the wrought iron gates slamming shut behind her, leaving me dangling around outside.

So last Saturday night, quietly humming "Luck be a lady tonight", plunging neckline in place, I was the Dice Woman, as in Luke Rhinehart . Trotting up the huge sweeping staircase of London's hottest casino, Fifty, Disraeli's old stomping ground. It was definitely history in the making; we were so going to get lucky tonight – in the traditional sense.:image:

Sipping the Fifty speciality Breakfast Martini, I felt gloriously Hepburnesque. The bar reeked of sensuality, packed with swarthy men complementing the dark smooth teak finishes and lux suede sofas. But tonight it was not about guys. This was Mission Totally Possible and we wanted chips for cash – now. :image:

The hushed exclusivity heralded something special. IDs, passports and gold master cards were exchanged for webcam photographs taken from cameras in the ceiling. Walkie talkie banter ushered our arrival to the depths of the hallowed gambling rooms. Slinking straight to the blackjack table, our chips were down and cards dealt.

But Lucky Blondie didn't seem quite so lucky after all. In a flash her stash miraculously vaporised. As complete novices we had by chance ended up at the highest stakes table in the room – minimum bet 25 quid. No Einstein needed to calculate that four chips down equals a hundred quid blown.

We scuttled off to try our luck at roulette, and I unearthed my tactics adopted successfully at a tacky Brisbane casino. It's all about allies. Last time it was a guy called Brad. This time it happened to be the biblical Abraham. At least we might have God on our side. And indeed a miracle did happen. Sandwiched between me and Blondie, Abraham, standing proud at 5ft, looked a little overwhelmed by our 4in heels and Amazonian stature. But not for long. For every spin of the wheel his rising piles of purple chips were instantly shadowed with our sludge brown equivalent. :image:

From there it was easy riding. With every roll of the ball we clinked our champagne flutes. Our lucky star was burning bright as Blondie threw her arms around Abraham, effusive in her adoration of his gambling skills. It was all going very well, we were laughing away as we greedily rearranged and recounted our piles, when a “boyfriend” had to crop up and ruin all the fun.

Blondie, heady from her wild winning streak, had completely forgotten her squeeze, who had been propping up the bar downstairs, waiting. An anti-gambler, he was fed up – and in sympathy she quickly cashed in and left, her empty chair and a whiff of Gucci's Envy her only trace.

As the next hour spiralled into loss upon loss, it dawned on me that indeed she really was the lucky star she had claimed to be. Even Abraham noticed. He slipped me his number when I finally left at 4am: “Give this to your friend – luck is her middle name.”

Salvation of the Week
Emma, my patient bank manager at Nat West

Single in the city: e-mail Xanadu here

Xanadu is a pseudonym

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