When I was a young girl I bought my first cottage. It was quite old, dating back to the early eighteen hundreds. It was a cosy little place, or had the potential to be in the eyes of my mortgage providers, who in their wisdom witheld quite a chunk of funding until I had done certain works on the cottage to their satisfaction - renewing the roof, installing an inside toilet and bathroom being top of their list; modern central heating coming further down.
I had a day job, one of my many in industry and whilst it paid enough to live on and re-pay the mortgage, it did not allow for any repairs and renewals as per the schedule of Messrs Grabbit and Grabbit, purveyors of mortgages to the lowly. So what to do? I went gardening. By day I was clad in four inch heels, tailored suits and Miss Dior and in the evenings, wellies, corduroys and eau-de-compost. I had been taught my gardening skills by a very dear old friend who had been bought up on a country house estate and what he didn't know about planting and pruning, you could probably have written on the back of a postage stamp.
Evenings and weekends I sashayed forth, my car loaded up with horticultural paraphernalia to tame the gardens of North Yorkshire. Unfortunately for me, many of these gardens had been abandoned by their owners who had traded up to pastures new in the whirlwind of a financial and property boom. The houses awaited a new owner, likewise the gardens. Yours truly was then called in to sort out the rapidly developing jungle. This was fine for me. Business was great, but ... with no occupants the houses were locked up.
When one has been toiling in the vineyard all day, so to speak and quaffing quantities of water, certain facilities are required and these were not available to me. When matters became urgent, I would seek out the most private and sheltered spot in the garden and 'perch', ready to do the necessary. It did not matter what time of day or late evening this event occured, I could guarantee that the moment I perched, a kindly neighbour would hove into view, bearing a tray of refreshments or offer of a loan of a rake, etc. Synchronicity?? I think so. Someone decides to bring me a cup of tea at the same minute as I decide to perch. Causally unrelated events but definitely occuring together ...
Synchronicity is busy about its work in my current novel. My characters do not drop their drawers in the garden to answer nature's call, but they all pursue their own paths which have a certain synchronicity about them, which will become apparent later in the novel, providing I can keep all the balls in the air. If only I'd had more of a misspent youth and run away to the circus ...