February 7 It's only special if you win things, says Slot

 It was smaller than he remembered but still hollow inside; as a child he and friends had used to sit inside it, plan adventures and tell stories. Now, slightly drunk, it was smaller than his memory, and he was squashed in, knees bunched up to his chin. Looking out through the leaves he still had a good view of the biscuit factory, the sun was coming up, his arms full of Jammie Dodgers and Garibaldis'.  

Simon Slot had executed the plan exactly as planned, right down to the phone call distraction and crushed can door jam. His lips were sugary, but a feeling deep down began to twist into nausea, the cramped conditions not helping his now delicate stomach. To avoid being sick into his lap he threw himself sideways out of the bush landing with a thud onto the gravel drive behind a grey BMW. Checking he was still unobserved and gathering up the last of the treasure haul, Slot raised himself to his feet and set off in the direction of home, gingerly at first but then as he felt an unexpected smile stretch across his face, he found a bounce in his step, shoulders back, chin to the world.