I think it’s my problem, actually. This mad assumption that everything will turn out for the best and that somehow I’ll land on my feet, buttered side up, and that at the end of the day there’ll be a big ensemble piece with everyone smiling and waving and someone holding up a banner saying ‘The End’ with cherubs and trumpets and swags of flowers. And it doesn’t work like that, and life doesn’t go the way you expect or want it to, and perhaps you’re best off not attaching too much weight to anything, so long as you don’t go down the teenage-philosophy-student wearing-black-and-being-cynical route because at the very least that’s utterly tedious. Do your best and see what comes and don’t expect things. But in absent moments, in the shower, washing up, I leap and bound forwards in time and predict all kinds of good things for tomorrow, next week, next year, next decade, and that’s irresponsible, because life actually isn’t a box of chocolates or a novel or a John Lewis advert. It’s seconds and minutes and days, human beings and atoms and molecules and hormones and neurons and God and Brownian motion and freak acts of nature and coincidences and causality, and there are so many different interactions and choices being played out, and the beauty of it is that it’s totally random. Running with the assumption that God has a plan, I don’t know what it is yet, and I just have to trust that idea and in the meantime do my best to do the right thing, be a good person, be someone I can be proud of.