It isn’t often within the orbit of one’s life that everything aligns for the perfect fit. And when it does – apart from the imperative to relish the infrequent arrangement – the sensation is beguiling. To the point of hesitancy and moderate trepidation. The uncertain agitation distills from the pleasurable amplitude of events, events both significant or inconsequential. One’s universe appears to operate in synchronization with the very street lights which almost magically turn green at an opportune moment.

Reluctant as we were to disturb the singularity of the moment we settled our morning ambition for a repeat passage along la route précise; namely, a cycle throughout the neighbourhood and upon the smoothest section of the former railway line. Though there were fractions of shaded areas, the ride was predominantly in the sultry sunshine. My subsequent dawdle in the garden on the patio proved far too immobile to withstand the sweltering heat.

Nothing happens by accident even though our delayed encounter with the operative collisions succeeds to remove us momentarily from the source of the events. And while I agree there is little but dry intelligence to distinguish the particular sequel with which we are so consumed, one mustn’t overlook the serendipity.

Serendipity is an unplanned fortunate discovery. Serendipity is a common occurrence throughout the history of product invention and scientific discovery.

My latest personal serendipitous event was the conclusion of a commission for an objet d’art by an artist whose father had created a similar object for me years ago. Shamefully I took with me when I went to collect the newest fabrication from his son a photograph of the original piece (which in a persuasion of austerity I had sold at auction). I had either failed to recall – or more likely I failed to acknowledge – that the son had told me of his intention to modify the original to capture my express wishes. I will not bother you, dear Reader, with the trifling details of these communications except to confirm that the younger artist, the son, has wrought a delightful expression which I have no doubt will spirit me and my own artistic sphere to the end of my days. The terminal nature of life and its idle absorption is never far removed in one’s seventh decade. Such I suppose is the ephemeral quality of the perfect fit!