I’d been waiting for a cab at the taxi rank for half an hour in the blazing sun, anchored by two heavy bags of shopping, when I remembered cigarette magic. This was a real thing people used to talk about, and it goes like this:

1. You can’t smoke in taxis, private cars or buses.
2. The universe hates you and doesn’t want you to have things.

So you light a cigarette. And before the cigarette is done, your ride will arrive, so that you cannot finish your cigarette.

So I lit a cigarette, smiling at the memory, And I was maybe a quarter through it when a cab appeared out of nowhere.

Magic is real if you want it to be. Or, sometimes, maybe the universe just gives up and lets you have one for free.