Postcards on the Edge of Reason

My life is filled with bizarre coincidences every week which I have become so used to that I barely note them any longer. However, one particularly convoluted and strange one does come to mind. Some years ago, a good friend, who lives in Mauritius, went travelling (as he does for several weeks each year). On this occasion he visited the Galapagos Islands. On the island there is a large barrel in which the Whalers of old would place letters or cards, the idea being that if anyone who followed were to be visiting the area to which the correspondence was addressed after leaving the islands, they would take the card or letter and deliver it. My friend observed this tradition and took a postcard which had been placed in the barrel, addressed to someone named "Berry English" in Southfields, near Wimbledon, wishing him a happy 21st Birthday. My friend had family in Croydon and was travelling there next. Unfortunately, he forgot to deliver the card on that trip and two years later, at the end of another visit to the UK, he met with my partner and I for lunch at our home in Wimbledon. He asked if we would deliver the card, which we agreed to do. After a failed attempt to find the address, it sat in our flat for another fortnight and so we scribbled a brief explanatory note in its' margin and put it in the post, to ensure its' final delivery and thought nothing more of it. A further two weeks later, I was working out at my local gym in Wimbledon with a friend, when a young man came over to us to ask how to use a particular machine. He was not a member and was there on a one-off guest pass. We got talking and he introduced himself as "Berry". I noted that that was an unusual name and asked if his mother had visited the Galapagos Islands a couple of years before. He looked at me strangely and confiormed her visit. I then asked if he had recently received a much belated birthday card from her recently. He was, needless to say a little freaked out by this question (as were all present). He remembered the note that we had added, saying "from a friend in Mauritius, to us in Wimbledon, to you in Southfields" and could finally understand what this actually meant. When he told his mother, she contacted John Peel at BBC Radio and was invited on the programme to describe the tale as part of a programme string on the subject of coincidences (a recording of which I have ... somewhere). I became friends for a while with Berry, though we have since lost touch. However, I do know he works at the BBC as a producer, as he once featured briefly on a programme I happened to be watching one evening. All quite bizarre. Did this amazing chain of unlikely events mean anything?. Who knows. Perhaps it will to you. Patrick Downing