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Travelling through north-east London last night, passing row upon row of terraced houses, it occurred to me: “No, my assumptions a year ago were not unwarranted.” The presumption that in a city of nine million people, or a country of 67 million, or a planet of 8 billion, I had no chance of ever again reacquainting myself with those I had once known.

In truth, that was a perfectly fair conclusion to draw. Witness those streets we passed along last night, until then nonexistent for us, the multitudes behind closed doors completely unknown. In a statistical analysis, it would be a completely reasonable hypothesis.

And yet, within twelve hours of telling myself that on a train into London last March, that verdict was blown to smithereens. There’s no point pondering probability in a world which defies materialist explanations. If two friends are meant to meet, even on the other side of the planet, they will meet, no matter how improbable or unlikely.

The universe is rather more complex than our minds can possibly compute. Indeed, so complex that I’m having an existential crisis over coffee. Do I exist? Does anything exist? It all seems highly unlikely. And yet here we are. It’s pretty weird when you think about it. Maybe that’s why so few of us do: because it would simply blow our mind.