The incredible floribundance of the mallow in the front garden, pruned last autumn with what felt like devastating ruthlessness, has given way in our amazement to the solitary, somehow unfeasible blossom of a giant decorative onion in the back. How can it possibly sustain itself?

I feel that way about life, sometimes. How has this or that blessing befallen my sorry self? I’m reminded of the frailty that often accompanies gigantism: mastiffs are renowned for challenges including weak hearts, while in humans, giants who are affected by Marfan’s Syndrome or acromegaly, are at risk from a variety of different debilitating conditions. With unexpected largesse, it often feels as if the negative corollary is not far behind.

But I’ve heard a contrary opinion expressed in song, to wit: ‘In front of every silver lining, there’s not always a dark cloud.’ Although I cannot find those lyrics, my hunch is that the multi-talented David Bromberg uttered them, possibly during a live show in Philadelphia, and the backward sense of faint surprise has stayed with me. It’s fun to turn conventional wisdom on its head and look at things from a different perspective. Aphorisms are not absolutes, after all.

I like to endeavour to persevere, but at the same time I’m aware that I easily lapse into laziness and am often pretty much of a dilettante. So appreciating the beauty and gobsmackingly, incredible amazingness of the things that enter my senses can feel like an undeserved reward.

Intriguingly, however, as those poorly referenced lyrics have it, it’s also a truism that these ‘rewards’ may arrive whether they’re deserved or not, whether they’re hidden behind clouds, or not. Perhaps my job is merely to observe, remark upon, and muse about pleasures unexpected.

If that’s so, with fulsome delight, I’m happy to oblige.