The fragility of life is witnessed in death.

Last week, I went to help my mother out with a job in a flat in a posh part of London. It was the first time I 'visited' that appartment... of a middle-aged man working for a big company and whose job involved a lot of jet-setting in various countries. As usual when entering the space of others, I observed around me and tried to catch a glimpse of their lives without ever meeting the people themselves.

His appartment was one of those that looked like the picture perfect of a letting agency's magazine. It was so spotless and polished, and ordered, that it just didn't really feel like real people lived there at all. There were large Persian rugs covering the wide, open spaced living room. Even the bedrooms appeared so impersonal, with no pictures to be seen anywhere, and bare, pristine white walls. The shelves were full of trinkets collected in the various countries he'd probably visited along the way, and there were a few paintings adorning the corridors.

I said to my mother: "You can really tell the guy barely ever spends time in his flat," and that's when she informed me that he was always travelling on business.

I ended up spending several hours in that home, looking around me as I did little chores. At some point I went into the kitchen to make myself some coffee. You could tell the man liked his wine and his taste didn't look bad, either. I smiled when I saw the bottle of Porto next to the wine, just because I had tried it not so long ago.

This afternoon, my mother called me to let me know she would no longer need my help for this place. She received a call in the morning informing her that the man in question has died. He was on a private jet, and that jet crashed sometime last week. Yet a mere couple of days earlier, my mother had been talking to him on the phone. And now he is dead.