When I was little most of my books came from jumble sales.

For the Americans (and the more middle class) amongst you, these are a kind of yard sale, but usually held in a church hall and contributed to by the local community. Picture long trestle tables heaped high with various cast off clothes and bric-a-brac. They had their own particular smell, those jumble sales; not just from the old and sometimes unwashed clothes, but also from the feisty little old ladies who would barge you out of the way if their gimlet* eyes spotted a bargain.

Let me tell you, old ladies elbows are hard, and you don’t want to be on the receiving end of one.

As well as the mountain of old man’s pants, there was, in the far corner of the room, near the hatch that served lukewarm squash and tea so strong a sugar lump would bounce off it, an unsteady table housing a stack of musty and torn books. Now, most of these were Reader’s Digests that nobody wanted, but every so often I would strike gold, and find an Enid Blyton or a Frances Hodgson Burnett.

 
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(Or Nixie’s Thoughts on Serendipity, Synchronicity and Leitmotifs)

I’ve been thinking a lot recently about serendipity – a fortunate chance. It is the idea that something unexpected happens just at the time when you need it most. Finding a pound coin in your pocket just before seeing that big squishy cream cake in the bakery window for example. Or bumping into your elderly Aunt Sophie who is a whiz with a needle and thread just as you need your socks darning. Ok, that was a bad example, but you get my drift.

Then the more I thought about it, the more I realised what I actually wanted to talk to you about was synchronicity. Rather than being a fortunate chance this is a meaningful, connected chance. So, several things happen at the same time, or within days of each other that are not caused by one another yet together mean something, or are curiously connected.
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