Spooked by the Son of a Preacher Man

Goodness knows what possessed me to download the Aretha Franklin version of Son of a Preacher Man at 6am on Thursday. But I did. I just had a sudden whim I wanted to listen to it on my way to Harefield Hospital.
So off I went on the train to London and fell asleep just south of Hertford.
Then, at Enfield, I woke with a start. A mysterious-looking Eastern European boy had sat next to me. He was listening to his iPod through loud headphones. And the song was unmistakable – Son of a Preacher Man. The Aretha version.
I found this a bit odd. It’s not exactly the best-known version, and I’ve still no idea why I’d had such a strong hunch I wanted to hear it.
But there was more to come.
When I arrived in Uxbridge, I popped into a cafe for lunch. What was playing in the background? Yes – That very song. That very version.
I half expected to get to Harefield and for Aretha Franklin to pop out from behind the ECG machine and reveal she’d become a cardiologist. But she didn’t. Just as well. I’d have probably had a heart attack.
As it was, the consultant said my heart was sounding ‘beautiful’ and all was well.
I must admit, I was dreading an answerphone message when I got home, saying something had happened to a long-lost schoolfriend who was, literally, the son of a preacher man. Yes he was, he was, oh yes he was.
But thankfully there was nothing, so I’m assuming he’s OK.