I find love everywhere I go.

The man at the corner shop starts making your coffee when he sees you cross the road. That isn't quite a transaction. Nobody trained him to watch the crossing.

Most of the love in an ordinary week arrives like that and never gets called love at all — a colleague covering a meeting because you sounded tired, someone's mother sending a photograph of a cat that isn't hers.

Finding it is largely a matter of counting it. Tally the small unrequested kindnesses aimed at you between now and Friday. The number comes back higher than anyone guesses. It usually does.