Anything that can happen, does

I wasn’t expecting anything unusual this morning. I simply followed my usual ritual -- stepping out to give my Roomba space and, as always, heading to Temple Court for a coffee and to finish some work. One of those automatic gestures that quietly mark the rhythm of ordinary days.

There, I spotted Professor Brian Cox having breakfast a few tables away. It felt surreal. Not in the celebrity sense, but in the strange realisation that you’re seeing someone whose voice has narrated the origins of time, black holes, entropy, and cosmic dust suddenly appear, out of context, crossing briefly into your own, ordinary orbit.

It also felt familiar. Not because I know him, but because his voice has narrated the edges of time and space in ways that shaped my own thinking. And now, here he was, part of his own small morning ritual, just a few feet away.

I wasn’t sure whether to say anything. I didn’t want to intrude, or worse, be *that* person. But it also felt odd to sit there, watching the universe fold in on itself over coffee.

I hesitated, but only briefly.

It felt natural to walk over. Not to interrupt, but to let him know that his work had made a difference in my life and that I was excited to be attending his lecture soon. We exchanged a few words. It was probably a little awkward. He was warm and polite. The moment lasted no more than a minute— they were already getting the check. The timing was oddly perfect.

Afterwards, I reflected on the moment. 

There wasn’t any profound exchange. No lightning strike. No epiphany. Just a brief, human encounter. It was sincere, slightly awkward, and gone before it fully registered.

I couldn’t help but wonder if it was possible to absorb even a bit of his brilliance by osmosis. Not in any mystical sense. But proximity does something, and when you’re near someone who has spent a lifetime thinking about the fabric of reality, something shifts. Not because they pass it to you, but because it inspires you to think of the possibilities.

Physics tells us most collisions are elastic. Objects meet, exchange a little energy, and move on. Not every encounter leaves a dent. Some just alter your trajectory slightly…  not in visible ways, but internally.

And then there’s also something called equipotential, where every point shares the same potential energy. Movement across it requires no effort. Everything rests in balance.

That’s what this felt like. Just two people briefly sharing space. No need to extract meaning. No need to make it profound (though, of course, I’m trying here!).

It wasn’t the first time I’d brushed against someone who narrates the world.

Years ago, at my university convocation, David Attenborough (who was also receiving his honorary degree there) spoke about rituals, including the very ceremony that we were part of.

I remember sitting there. I was younger, excited to be graduating and going out into the world, not fully aware of how rare it was to hear his voice in person. I didn’t grasp it then. It felt distant, abstract, but oddly comforting.

Now, years later, sitting quietly after this brief exchange with Brian Cox, that memory drifted back. Another reminder that those who explain the universe can sometimes pass through your own world.

And perhaps that’s what rituals offer. Not just comfort or repetition, but the conditions through which the unexpected can slip.

Most days, they simply mark time. But every so often, they fracture. And in that small glitch, something unscripted enters.

Just a moment. 

Unplanned and a little surreal, before it folds back into the mundane.

Love, Vx