I have an uncanny ability to jinx myself. For as soon as the possibility of an ideal flutters in my head (edged in by the tantalising whispers of smooth-sailing reality), it’s proven wrong in the next day or two by real life. Maybe I’m placing too much hope in the future — but where else do you find the impetus in life?
Maybe I’m just unlucky. Or lucky, if you will, that the universe is always reminding me not to be complacent: just because something exists in the present doesn’t mean its presence in the future, doesn’t mean it won’t be warped by the machinations of life.