Chilly morning after a run of Summer days come early. Buds on the roses, crocuses, but cold, definitely cold. The sun off to the right, describing a partial arc of the sky, from where I am facing East. Can't remember whether it's the sun, or the moon, or something else, but it's in Virgo according to the subject-line I read, which makes this a time of focus (okay, I opened the email).

Space-station Mir is in Virgo, perhaps. Now I'm remembering a conversation recently with a friend. "That was serendipity," I said, to whatever fortunate confluence of events had befallen her. "If I believed in all that, I'd agree with you," she replied, with a sigh that was audible even on Gmail.

So we had a conversation about the unimportance of belief. Does it matter whether it's chance, or the work of some benign Something? If it's chance - well, okay, we're just oddly evolved animals making a mess of life on a ball of rock, etc., hurtling through a void. If There Is Something reading this over my/your shoulder - they'd let us know if we're supposed to say thank-you.

Either way, I say: celebrate the serendipities, even if they are just chance. I think - and if you've come this far I'll assume you want to know what I think - that we're supposed to work with what we do/don't believe - because there's a self-assessment/self-nurture/self-reassurance process in there that matters.

There's nothing. Deal with it. There's something. Sit up straight. Some version of that is the monologue/dialogue you have with yourself.

The real question is - what does it tell you about yourself?

Spend some time looking at climate change. Charts, graphs, statistics, weather reports, news stories, icebergs breaking free, badly burned koala bears...

Then ask yourself, "What would Gaia do?"

What would the "earth organism", the combined total of everything living and life-supporting on the planet, close relative of Mother Nature, do about climate change?

Cull the invasive species? I wonder.

This virus could have been designed for us. It creeps up, never quite serious enough for us to recognise the threat, and first it takes out the older and more vulnerable. Leaving what a nature show would call a healthy breeding stock.

And/or install, somewhere deep in the primitive part of the brain, an instinct towards self-destruction? I wonder.

(1) We get a vaccine. Start vaccinating. Some weeks later, the scientists think to tell us - or the media finally get round to reporting their message - that after vaccination, we can still infect people.

(2) We get a vaccine. Two doses, to be given three weeks apart. We decide to give them eleven weeks apart. That way, we can give lots more first doses, and future supply can take care of the second doses. Roughly ten weeks into the first-dose phase, the company supplying the vaccine announces production delays.

Those delays, says a politician, are "unacceptable". Which is great, because those second doses have to be given within twelve weeks of the first dose. Or the vaccine expires. Becomes ineffective. Doesn't protect us.

I'm sorry to be such a pessimist, but I can't dislodge this uneasy feeling that we're going to leave behind for future generations a cleaner, greener, less crowded world.

It's not the fake news.

It's not the lies.

Nor is it that social-media thing whereby you exclude everybody who might disagree with you.

It's the self-belief.

The answer to

"Here is the incontrovertible evidence that proves you wrong."

is

"I know what I believe."

But that's understandable.

In our culture, the rebel always beats the empire.

We're disposed to take on causes.

The emperor doesn't have much of a dress sense, and the answer to the question "The 'empire' would do that, wouldn't they?" is not clear-cut.

Sooner or later, we all learn how to handle being mistaken. And occasionally just flat-out embarrassingly wrong.

We all experience that awful moment - you storm out, slam the door ... and realise that sooner or later, you're going to have to un-storm your way back in again.

Concede defeat, in other words. It's part of growing up.

The wisdom, at those moments, is to be found in the faces of the other people in the room, the parents let's say, who carry on as though nothing has happened, not looking at you, not reacting, letting the situation stabilise.

You gather up your toys and climb back into your pram. Life goes on.

In the 1984 film Red Dawn, Soviet paratroopers land on the football field of a high school in Colorado.

In the 2012 remake, they're North Koreans.

Either way, this local event represents a nationwide security failure: the baddies have invaded the US mainland. A crack team of high-school kids fades into the mountain country around the school to form The Resistance.

In time, the kids' immediate grasp of bomb-making and other sabotage techniques; their commitment to arguing face-to-face about their relationship issues; their adherence to American Values and clean laundry are so effective that the nasty Russians roll over to have their tummies tickled.

Or something like that. The 1984 Red Dawn runs for 114 minutes.

In the 2024 film Capitol, a group of middle-aged American citizens in fancy dress invade the seat of democracy in the USA. Shots are fired; there are deaths; the invaders describe their action as a "coup" and then split up either to go home or do some sight-seeing around Washington.

This is a security failure, etc., but they're rounded up very quickly by the FBI working from social-media and news footage. They go to jail.

It's a very short film.

The 1984 Red Dawn's actually okay. There are whole stretches (from memory) in which it's possible to suspend disbelief.

Capitol? Nah, ridiculous. In the real world they'd have a plan, at least. Wouldn't they?

Fondly remembering Boaty McBoatface today. No particular reason.

In 2016, shortly before the Brexit referendum, the UK's NERC (National Environment Research Council) "invited the internet" (says the internet) to suggest a name for its new ship.

The internet - or as we might say, the people - suggested Boaty McBoatface. The NERC - or as we might say, the establishment - thought it knew better. The ship ended up being named after a popular relevision presenter who had been knighted (no, not that one).

The name Boaty McBoatface went to a small robot submarine.

Then the UK government suggested that we all vote to stay in the European Union, and just over half of the, ah,  people's vote went to leaving the European Union.

Meanwhile, in the USA, preparations continued for the 2016 Presidential Election.

There was a clue in there somewhere. To something.

Here's a conceptual framework for thinking about life on other planets.

The universe is in its infancy.

Everything started - including life - with the alleged "Big Bang", and if you think about the number of zeroes you could stick on the end of time itself, that was only yesterday. The rubble is still flying out from the explosion.

Today's universe is not the end-product. It's the starter kit, barely out of its box. It's not as though the Big Bangk was then and this is now. Life has hardly moved from its starting point - yet.

We know that microscopic "tardigrades" and other tiny wriggly things can survive - and reproduce - in space. Scientists took tardigrades to the International Space Station a few years back, and watched them. There are photographs. And measurements. Those were healthy tardigrades, after as well as before.

Now. We know that if you ask a space agency, they'll tell you that the cleanliness of their spaceships is among their highest priorities. We also know that in today-speak, that's pretty much the same as saying: yeah, the cleaners may miss a bit occasionally, but they've told us it won't happen again.

I'd bet that there are at least a few tardigrade couples now heading off to a new life on Mars or beyond, courtesy of the various Rovers and Exployers and Voyagers that we've sent out lately, and I'd also bet that if we came back to this whole alien-life question in a few millennia, some evolved form of tardigrade would pick up the phone.

What you said then would depend on how well you spoke cockroach, I guess, but never mind - you've made the connection. [In next week's episode, gravity finally starts to work on the universe, and after a brief slack tide, the rubble all starts flying in again. What a Bang that'll make.]

We're three days out from the dawning of the age of the post-Brexit deal. My phone tells me that three days from now, a group of Senators will make a last-ditch attempt to invalidate the US election.

The UK government has decreed that second doses of the Covid vaccine won't be given on schedule. Daily infection rates in the UK are above 50,000.

I think to myself: this can't be the pinnacle of human civilisation. Surely?

Then I think to myself: let's hope we have time to launch some really dirty spaceships before the end.