I have always tried to live my life on the theory that What Goes Around Comes Around.
On Sunday night, when I was out picking up the takeaway, I stepped on a black wallet near the darkened footpath at the Garran shops. It crossed my mind that nobody would see if I put it in my pocket, but honesty, and a fleeting but critical premonition of a guilty conscience (thanks, Mum), quickly won out, and I handed it in at the local supermarket for its rightful owner to claim. (Which they did; it was gone the next morning.)
Fast forward to this morning. As we were getting ready for school/work, there was a knock on the door. The father of a couple of the kids at the boys' school was standing there. In his hands was a slightly weatherbeaten red Sherrin (size 3) with our name and phone number attached. It disappeared some time around last August. It had been given up for dead; plans were slowly hatching to buy a replacement. Now we have been reunited, and we are happy. Well, I can't speak for the football.
I firmly believe, even as I stand here before you as a man of science, not faith, that it is no coincidence that we unexpectedly have our beloved footy back so soon after my small good deed of last Sunday night.