There are mysteries surrounding the most humdrum of lives. Even mine. A parcel arrived this week, forwarded from my previous address. Not a quick process, so perhaps it was something to do with Christmas.

I opened it without excitement, expecting a couple of ghosted autobiographies of footballers or perhaps a guide to the golf courses of the world, sent in the vain hope that I might review them. And I found a bottle of champagne. Good champagne. I mean, really, really good champagne. To be specific, Dom Perignon 2004. I believe that’s what the angels drink on their tea-breaks.

I was naturally delighted. And looked for the covering note. There was none. No clue from the packaging and labelling: it had just come from the sort of people who despatch stuff. It was as if a bottle of ambrosia has just dropped down from heaven without explanation, and no, not the creamed rice.

Was it a thank you? Is so for what? Was it a bribe? Then tell me what for so I can do it again. Was it the Countryside Alliance, struck by remorse for the grief they have caused me? Was it Julia Roberts forgetting to include details of our assignation? Kate Bush wanting me to co-write her next album? David Cameron, wanting my advice on green issues?

I am nonplussed. But I shall act. I don’t know what occasion will be worthy of so patrician a bottle, but I have every confidence that it will come.

And to whoever sent this celestial gift –

Thank you very, very much.