Two days ago I asked a question. Last night I received an answer.

Two women got on the bus. They prattled for a while about the sort of meaningless things humans talk about these days - banter both fascinating and infinitely dull depending on your mood and regard of the world and its most itinerant species at the time.

And then one of them said something that really caught my attention:

“Do you like my necklace?” I half heard the first woman say.
“Oh yes,” the second replied. “Where did you get it?”
“Glastonbury. It’s nice isn’t it? I like it because it’s unusual.”
“It is, yes. I like the heart” At this point I think I rolled my eyes. “What’s that beneath the heart?” the second woman then asked.
“It’s a caduceus.“
I looked over, a little less subtly than perhaps I should have done. A description isn’t really necessary - it looked just like you’d imagine a heart with a caduceus beneath it to look. Caduceus. Medicine. Hermes. Messenger of the gods, and himself god of magic. I noticed the woman was wearing a blouse beneath her black jacket - something halfway between red and pink, the colour in basic magic for…

And then the lyrics that have been spinning round and round my head for the past week began their little pirouette once again:

…love is the answer to a question
That I have forgotten
But I know I’ve been asked
And the answer has got to be love love love

So there it is. My answer.

And I have only the most rudimentary understanding of what it means. That’s the tricky thing with asking questions. They’re like jelly beans. Or kisses. Or gherkins.

One is never enough.