How Lucky Exactly?

The lucky heather market has never been more buoyant. In Covent Garden alone, sales can be worth in excess of £100 an hour. Londoners may be disturbed to learn, however, that, in many cases, quality control is patchy or even non-existent, and what's described as "lucky" could actually turn out to be downright dangerous. Last week, for example, I purchased a heather and subsequently won £50 on the Premium Bonds. Great. But last month, within 24 hours of having bought a seemingly identical sprig, I fell off a wall and badly grazed my elbow.

Surely, with such uneven results, this trade cries out for regulation?

"Strictly speaking, you can sue if the goods don't perform as described," said Trading Standards officer, Doug Love. So there's scope for legal redress over the elbow? "Possibly. Your problem here, though, is in establishing a causative link between the heather and your misfortune. The vendor could plausibly argue, for instance, that were it not for her heather, what befell you might have been even worse." Would Trading Standards fight my corner if I pursued the matter in the courts? "Frankly, we've got better things to do."

With such pusillanimity from officialdom, it was obviously necessary to undertake my own, thorough consumer test. Accordingly, I purchased three heathers from three different vendors. Would I feel lucky?

The sales force - based, variously, in Covent Garden, Leicester Square, and the forecourt of Victoria Station - proved somewhat reticent when asked to provide cast-iron guarantees for their heather's efficacy. Obvious questions did need answering, I insisted. Foremost amongst them being: if an individual heather is indeed as lucky as they claim, how come the vendors themselves, who, daily, carry hundreds of the things, aren't all now multiple Lottery winners? Could it be, perhaps, that the luck is only initiated at the moment of purchase? And if so, is there a direct correlation between price and performance?

"Annie", who works Covent Garden, dressed in Eliza Doolittle garb, was the only vendor who didn't immediately assume I was a plainclothes policeman and take off at speed. "It's just Gypsy luck, love. It comes to those who believe it. If you don't, no amount of heather is going to bring it. But you've got a lucky face, my darling. I know you'll find good fortune."

Which, as quality guarantees go, is as equivocal as "Probably the best lager in the world," and "Most pet owners say their cats prefer it." Fair enough, I said. But another thing that bothered me was the fact that the heather, by its vary nature, is a perishable product. So do these sprigs have a "Get-lucky-by" date, like other such perishables? And, if so, would a time-expired heather be the same sort of disaster waiting to happen as, say, a month-old carton of milk or a senescent salmon mousse? Worryingly, Annie wouldn't be drawn on this, but did offer to give me a "crystal reading" for £5. I declined.

Come the test day, no piano had fallen on my head, my teeth and hair were still my own, and Danny Baker hadn't moved in next-door. So at least, thus far, the heather hadn't been unlucky. But to properly prove itself, it needed to do more than just bring me luck. - after all, everyone, even the heatherless, gets lucky now and then - it had to perform against the odds.

And where better than a betting shop? Luck in the racing game is notoriously fickle, as this year's hot favourite can often be next year's Pedigree Chum. So the heather was going to have to pull out all its stops to perform well.

Having primed my sprig overnight in a glass of Evian, I went to Ladbrokes and studied the form. Betting on a favourite was, of course, out. To stretch the heather to its limit, I needed prices of no lower than 10/1. At that afternoon's Lingfield meeting, three potential candidates for the glue factory duly presented themselves: at 14/1, 20/1, and 100/1. I put £2 on each, to win.

Result: Did they Hell. The damn donkeys weren't even placed. The traditional final furlong, "Kaa-aaam oooorn my saa-aan!" didn't help, either. She'd obviously sold me a dud.

Verdict: Disappointing. Then again, the gas that passes for air in a bookie's is always so heavy with cigarette smoke that you feel like a laboratory beagle. It could therefore be argued, I suppose, that getting out without contracting emphysema was a stroke of luck in itself.

The odds against a Lottery jackpot are in the region of 17 million to one. The Victoria sprig had already started to wilt by the time I reached the newsagent's, so I didn't reckon it was up to achieving that. However, the 14 to one odds of getting a tenner were probably within its powers. But, to ensure it didn't have too easy a ride, I phoned Camelot beforehand and asked them for the six numbers that have appeared with least frequency. They are: 15 18 19 37 39 49.

Result: Zilch. Not a single number came up.

Verdict: A total rip-off. And shoddy goods into the bargain.

This was a quality piece of merchandise, no mistake - a sprig of heather plus an arrangement of artificial flowers - hence the higher price. But would it be any more efficient than the economy models? Off to a singles' bar in Maida Vale to find out.

Under normal circumstances, my rugged good-looks and effortless sophistication are usually enough to guarantee near instant success in such places. So in order to properly handicap the heather, I had to transform myself into some sort of human emetic. I therefore assumed the demeanour of a trainspotter (or a "look-onner", as they apparently like to call themselves) and got in character.

Result: Lots of "Are you for real?" type questions initially. When it was decided I was, the whole bar formed an exclusion zone around me. All except for the girls that The Evening Standard's photographer managed to coax to my table. Even here, however, I was unable to break the ice and effectively communicate my enthusiasm for narrow-gauge, comparative shunting speeds, and the electrification of the East Coast line. Indeed, the news that the Gresley A4 Class 60007 had replaced the Bulleid Class 210101 on the Doncaster run was actually received with blank stares. Then again, it was hardly a surprise, when you remember the abysmal performance of the Stanton Class NE18009 on the same route last year.

Verdict: It could have been worse. I could have pulled a female trainspotter.

Overall, then, zero out of three would seem to suggest that the consumer is being shafted in a big way with these so-called lucky heathers. Perhaps, if enough people like me are prepared to express their dissatisfaction with the goods on offer, matters will improve. Or is a change in the law the only answer?

Whatever, as the evening amongst the singles drew to a fruitless close, I consigned the luckless heather to an ashtray and contemptuously stubbed a cigarette out on top of it. "Hello, my name's Giliana," said a voice beside me. It belonged to a rather attractive Italian investment banker ..........

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