On Monday, 22nd January, 2024, Alison and I set off on a mission on the 24 bus. That in itself isn’t that unusual – the 24 is our nearest route, taking us from our home on the South Side right through the centre and beyond – but, were you to believe all that sort of stuff, the confluence of numbers might have been taken to mean something.

Let me explain. Our house number was for many years 22 (our current address also has a 2 and a 4 in it). I was born on the 4th, so have always regarded that as a lucky number. As it happened, we were going to the laundry in Stockbridge to pick up some coats, which along with the 2 that couldn’t be cleaned made a total of 8, i.e. 2 x 4, or 2 x 2 x 2.

Having collected them, we set off on the 24 in the other direction, because the objective of our mission was to deliver the coats, which had been Alison’s Dad’s, to Clothesbank+, an initiative of the Edinburgh City Mission to provide clothing to homeless people.

So that was the real significance of the day, leaving all numbers aside. Over 4 years after Alison’s Dad’s death, her Mum had agreed to hand on his coats to the homeless.

But the number 22 had another significance for us, even though it was just random chance that it was that particular day we managed to get down to Stockbridge to pick up the coats and deliver them to Central Hall, in Lothian Road.

22nd January was the tenth anniversary of my own Dad’s death: bringing back, that morning, memories of the dash I made from a committee meeting in Cupar to the Edinburgh Royal Infirmary once I’d had That Call, barrelling through north Fife on a rural road to start with, joining the dual carriageway at Glenrothes, trying to keep my driving as controlled as it could be, then the motorway, over the Bridge and round the City Bypass, weaving in and out of traffic, other people  going about their business on just another day, or who knows, doing exactly the same as me, desperately trying to reach a loved one before it was too late.

(I was too late).

Ten years on, as we got off the 24 on Monday, the somewhat grim bulk of Central Hall was lit up by a rainbow, its arch perfectly aligned to drop like a waterfall of colour into the dome at the centre of the former Methodist meeting hall. We stood, just for a moment, in the midst of the busy street, people going about their business on just another day, or who knows, racing to see their loved ones in time. The rainbow, as rainbows do, moved out of alignment with the dome as we approached, and began to fade.

I don’t believe in any of that numerology nonsense, but in the face of all meteorological and scientific evidence, I want to believe it was both Dads had combined to send us that rainbow.

I’d have taken a picture to show you, but frankly I was too busy wrestling a pack of 6 freshly laundered coats to my bosom. You’ll just have to take my word for it.