Just lately I’ve become prey to the notion that someone is
watching me surreptitiously from the wings as I strut and fret my hour upon the
stage. And I’m not talking anything spooky here, just real flesh and blood.
I realise, of course, that I have a vivid imagination. I also realise that the imaginative faculty is easily roused when there is even the merest hint of wish-fulfilment in the air. But I also attach significant credence to the notion that connections sometimes exist between people, and that such connections can be impervious to the destructive power of fire, flood, frost and the ague.
We never know, do we, because so very few things in life are certain.
Meanwhile, I’m developing quite the urge to approach Emily and ask: ‘Are you an INFJ by any chance?’ I’m very nearly certain that I won’t.
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