37. St Mary Magdalene, Taunton

With God on our side we will win; he will defeat our enemies. The words come from Psalm 108 and have formed the sticking point to any number of debates theological or otherwise down the years.

The idea of enlisting the almighty to wade in on your behalf has been used by every army that ever fought - more often than not as a salve to their own side that they shouldn’t fear death and opt to run off before the event. 

It’s perhaps a slightly quirky view of mere mortals’ relationship with the omnipotent that WE should come up with the plan and then enlist HIM to do the necessary - much of Christian teaching tends to have matters the other way round.

It’s also used as a justification for whatever dirty business the combatants want doing. Turning weapons on others when there’s no overwhelming reason for doing so can be made to feel all the more justifiable if it’s been cleared by Heaven. Bob Dylan famously confronted this avenue of thought in a song which ended up angering the military-minded as much as any armed enemy had previously managed.

Getting your deity to pick up arms on your behalf made some sense, I suppose, when you had a different God or gods from those of your enemies - It becomes a version of ‘my dad’s bigger than your dad’. But when you and your opponents both pay homage to the same God, it all gets a bit complicated.

We all make individual, plaintive deals with whoever we believe in. Frequently at moments when we feel the helping hand from on high would help to turn a fairly evenly-balanced issue in our favour.

It’s still before 8.00 on a bright Sunday morning and I’ve already put in two and a half hours of driving to arrive in Taunton for a much-anticipated day at the cricket. Somerset have made a hugely promising start in their endless quest to win the county championship for the first time in their long history, but the intercession of the almighty on their behalf would surely help things along.

But I’m not here just to pray for James Hildreth to bat well and for Hampshire to drop every catch that comes their way. St Mary Magdalene, together with St James just up the road, have always played a big part in Somerset’s history. There can’t be many pictures taken of the ground - mine included - which don’t feature the two towers looming over the boundary. Sports fans are known for having lucky routines on the way to each game - a lucky place to meet, a lucky pub for a lucky drink on the way to the match. So why not a lucky communion service?

If it is a workable idea, it hasn’t been taken up by many. There are something like eight people in St Mary Magdalene this morning. They’re dotted around the pews as if they all have a favourite place to sit and will make for that however sparse that might make things appear. I’ve chosen St Mary over St James mainly because of timings - St James has a family service starting about the same time as the first over in the cricket thus making it slightly inconvenient and increasing the chances of being felled by a heartily-smote cricket ball while wandering in the churchyard.

St Mary’s is a beautiful church inside and out - ornate and packed with features to tempt the eye. The service is short and the readings are focussed on the rather apt subject of remaining steadfast in the face of difficult challenges. I find myself wondering if someone, somewhere has taken note of Somerset’s recent tendency to cave in before even reaching the first batting point. We need to show a flinty face, we are told, and stay true to our convictions when others may be throwing difficult questions our way. I instantly resolve to look flinty beneath my Somerset sunhat whatever setbacks the pre-lunch session may throw at us.

Back out into the early morning sunshine in this fine town and I join the many-more-than-eight making their way into the ground aiming for their own favourite vantage points carrying with them perhaps a few prayers as well as the generous hampers. I try to sit somewhere where I can at least see the towers watching over the immaculate grass and the gentle passage of the day’s play.

As Hildreth reached his century and later as Somerset passed the significant 400 mark, I wondered if God had indeed answered my prayers or whether it was just the home batsmen coming into form with perfect timing for my visit. It should be noted however, that I saw no evidence of any Hampshire hats being worn among the eight people who put in the early shift.

36. Liverpool’s Cathedrals

Way back in the 1980s I was a bit of a record collector. I would be quite happy browsing the racks of whichever record shop I was in, checking on albums I’d long desired in case of a bargain, and thumbing through what they’d got by my favourite bands in the hope of finding an unexpected rarity. 

Like many record buyers I was drawn to the allure of the megastore. These massive, warehouse size record shops sprung up all over the place - my favourite was in Oxford Street in London where the racks went on for miles and there were whole rooms for different music styles. Bigger, you’d be led to believe, was automatically, demonstrably better.

When it comes to megastores of the Christian world, Liverpool is better off than most. Not only does it have one huge cathedral, it has two. And they’re both magnificent. I’ve been to Liverpool for a day out many times and, no matter what other attractions the city might offer - from the docks to the Tate Gallery to the Cavern Club and so on - it’s these two beautiful examples of architectural vision and unswerving faith which always pull me in.

The Metropolitan Cathedral Church of Christ the King is the Catholic focal point of the north and a genuine icon in its own right. It’s still-modern spiky hat  can be seen for miles around and the occasional brutality of some of the exterior gives way inside to a feeling of colour and space which always impresses. On this brilliantly sunny day the light pouring through the stained glass is throwing huge patches of red, blue and green into the giant arena under the soaring conical roof. The scale of the plain walls allows or some monster big tapestries and banners and each of the many chapels round the perimeter boasts a design worthy of exploring.

I’ve come for a lunchtime mass but it won’t be in this fabulous space. It’s tucked away in the crypt chapel, and I’m directed back out of the main entrance and round to a subterranean side door. I’d be tempted to think it a bit much that worship has to make way for the selfie-brigade snapping away at the undoubted highlights, but the crypt chapel with its vaulted brickwork and mysterious alcoves is still a fabulous space.

Mass is held for a small congregation many of whom look like they’re just taking an hour out from a busy day. There’s no concession to this being an obvious tourist spot, it’s just a normal service regardless of its noteworthy setting.

If you head down the cathedral’s stadium-like front steps and walk down the aptly-named Hope Street, your way will soon be blocked by the unbelievably massive bulk of Liverpool’s Anglican Cathedral. Any superlatives lavished on the Catholic cathedral can, in my view, be doubled here. This building is simply the biggest thing I’ve ever seen. Of course there’s statistics to back that up. The tourist leaflet runs through them all; the UK’s biggest cathedral, the highest tower, the tallest Gothic arches, the heaviest bells, the largest organ in the nation and so on.

And the feeling inside really does reflect this. The gothic styling is huge and the fact that it was built with relatively modern building techniques just meant they could scale it up even more. It’s like someone has lined Cheddar Gorge with bricks and then upended the whole thing. The height and length is just stunning.

I’m in the choir stalls at the very eastern extremity of the interior. On one hand I’m overshadowed by the enormous gold carvings behind the high altar, in the other direction the nave disappears off into the distance and the vast stained glass window above the western entrance about three miles away. Of course that’s an exaggeration, but I can’t be the first to wonder at an indoor expanse not even Chris Gayle could outhit. 

Evensong is held pretty much after the cathedral has closed for the day so the congregation in the choir is fewer than a dozen with a clutch of late-stayers halfway down the nave enjoying the acoustics. The service, however, is not small for all its meagre attendance. The choir are magnificent and the reverb from the endless, towering walls utterly beguiling. The organ’s lowest pipes are disconcertingly visceral and the whole spectacle is worthy of its setting. 

So is what’s offered at these two flagships of the faith equally scaled-up? Well no, not really. I found myself talking to a woman fortunate to be working as a canon in the Anglican ‘megastore’. She told me it was easy to become lost in the sheer majesty of the place. It was important, she said, to take the time to push all the statistics and the visual glories to one side and remember that, huge as they are, they’re still churches performing the function that all churches do. There’s nothing different solely as a result of being huge. 

I’m reminded that, even in Oxford Street’s vast vinyl paradise, The Clash by then had only produced a trio of albums, there were just more copies on the racks. A lot more copies; not different, not better, just more.

These massive cathedrals make a massive statement, but it’s the same statement made by every parish church. But their size is still part of their appeal. They’re a testament to what can be done when a whole city gets behind a project. The scale of their presence is more to do with the pride this city has always had in itself than anything else. 

35. The Forest Hermitage, near Warwick

How far are you prepared to go? It’s a question which occurs to me as I drive slowly down a narrow lane heading deep into the Warwickshire countryside. Farm entrances, gates into fields and even the odd splendidly secluded house all offer the chance to turn the car round and head back home to the undoubted attractions of the women’s world cup. But I decide to go on and it strikes me that this is a decision anyone exploring religion must regularly face.

At the far end of this fine country lane is The Forest Hermitage, a Buddhist retreat offering the chance to join an evening meditation session. It’s in a  beautiful setting surrounded by woods and fields, perfect for the seclusion and harmony with nature anyone heading for a retreat would be seeking. 

I’ve taken quite a few ad-hoc meditation classes over the years; at a huge retreat near Hemel Hempstead, at a Buddhist centre and world cafe in Leicester, as part of a mindfulness meditation group in a church in Warwick and once even in Hong Kong. And in many ways, that spread of try-out taster sessions all over the place rather makes the point I’m pondering. I seem to like the idea on the surface but could I ever really claim to be committed to going any deeper?

It’s a point made very well back at the Elim church a couple of weeks ago by a Pastor literally standing ankle deep in water to illustrate how, when it comes to fully immersive religious commitment, many of us seem happy to stay pretty much in the shallows.

Buddhism’s shallows are, to many in these frenetic times, blissfully attractive. There’s a series of moral rules we’d all like to adhere to; no killing, no lying, no stealing, no drugs and so on, and there’s the promise to live your life without giving any harm to others. All this backed up by a regime of spending hours in silent contemplation while the world and its many frustrations and shortcomings simply recedes into the distance leaving you cleansed, content and serene. No wonder the current self-help book generation latches onto it with such immediate alacrity.

But Buddhism is much more than that and to get at the truths beneath you have to go very deep indeed. The art of proper meditation is a case in point. The idea is simple to grasp, rather like the instructions for playing the harp - you just pluck the strings and the music will come out.

Tonight’s session is in a small temple to the side of this fine cottage. It’s led by a monk and numbers some residential students and a few arriving by car among the dozen in the room. It starts with chanting and prayers and then moves into a full breathing meditation exercise. And it’s here my problems always start. 

The practice of sitting on the ground and the concept of achieving a state of calm repose are, for me, mutually exclusive. I have never been able to sit cross-legged; it’s as much a structural problem as it is one of poor fitness and lack of practice. Constantly having to shift position and use my hands to brace my collapsing posture is anathema to the idea of any settled contemplative state. 

Practice may perhaps make perfect, but a complete lack of practice is equally certain to highlight fairly fatal imperfections. Like the would-be harpist, the simplest instructions belie the need for some real expertise. Gaining even basic proficiency takes aptitude and application in equal measure.

Following the exercise, the monk offers a gentle but inspiring reminder of the Dharma - the goals for living set out for Buddhists to strive for, attain and then adhere to. He speaks softly, patiently and not without humour. It’s a very compelling example. Why would you NOT want to live a life like that when the evidence of the million failings of modern life are so abundantly on show around us?

I love the idea of meditation and I dearly want to find myself progressing to the next echelon of ruminative study, but my limitations leave me struggling for either comfort or concentration. I have taken to inventing my own form of meditation. I get comfortable with the completely shameless use of a chair and I use my own choice of musical soundtrack to help transport my thoughts away from the here and now. It works but, given the absolute lack of comfort-denial and the obvious absence of anything remotely resembling a challenge, is it the real thing or just a gentle stroll through the shallowest of shallows.

So how far DO I want to go? And what might make me suddenly decide that any particular faith was the one for me to hurl myself into body and soul? 

I can’t answer that question at the moment. But I know that whenever I do get round to giving it the thought it deserves, I’d quite like not to be in abject discomfort and pain while that contemplation is taking place.

34. Lazarica, Birmingham

In John Berger’s still-respected book on the way we view art Ways of Seeing, there’s an essay that’s different from all the rest. Where the critic and theorist has previously made his points and arguments with well-chosen words, he suddenly opts to use pictures alone reasoning that the images can tell the story on their own.

This springs to mind today because I’m tempted to do the same in recording my visit to the Lazarica in Bournville. I usually take a couple of shots to go with my posts but, sitting down with my camera afterwards, I realise I’ve taken nearly a hundred this morning such is the visual splendour of the church’s magnificent interior. Nevertheless, I shall stick with words.

The Serbian Orthodox Church of the Holy Prince Lazar - and the worship which takes place within it - is an assault on the senses. Within its high brick walls is spectacle of colour. The deep blue of the background is covered by paintings and icons everywhere you look. On every surface from the base of the pillars to the inside edges of the soaring arches to the magnificent centrepiece high in the dome. Golden fitting and banks of slender candles just add to it. There’s the heady atmosphere of rich incense to breathe in and some sumptuous harmonic liturgical chanting from the priests and a choir on a high balcony. A wonderful mixture.

This morning is a special day in the calendar of this church. Today is the feast day of The Holy Prince Lazar, the patron saint of the church. Looking on the church’s website at all the services coming up, I noted that this day alone is marked in gold lettering. There’s a celebratory feeling all round. 

But this morning seems to want to earn its gold status by packing in even more than a saint’s day. There’s a visit from the Bishop to add a bit of pomp and the arrival from a Serbian monastery (I hope I’ve got this right) of a significant icon. This beautiful, huge ornate icon, famed for its miraculous powers of healing, is brought in and placed in its own display case to be prayed to, touched, kissed and - more often than not - photographed by anyone at any point in the morning.

The Bishop has come from afar too, much further than me I’m given to understand seeing that his parish also seems to cover his native Scandinavia. To add yet more to the packed programme for the day, he’s here to help conduct the ordination, or at least the promotion, of one of the many clerics and priests on view. It’s a ceremony rich in tradition and importance, but not without a smile and a message of good luck - this is, after all, good news.

And as if all that were not enough, there’s the normal Sunday business of worship, Gospel reading and communion to be dealt with and that - in an Orthodox church - is never a speedy or hurried process.

Orthodox services have, in my admittedly scant experience, an air of casual chaos to them even if everything is perfectly planned. There are a dozen or more priests on show, of various rank and with greater or lesser roles to play. Their ministrations are watched and helped along by others acting almost as live stage managers, constantly repositioning microphones and celebrants with equal assurance.

Add to this the tradition of wandering to the front to kiss the icons on arrival and the casual attitude to when the whole thing actually starts and there’s a sense of being part of a slowly shifting audience watching a rather unconnected but compelling drama. By the time things are reaching a conclusion there’s standing room only for the groundlings - partly due to the fact that the church has no chairs but mainly due to the steady arrival of more and more people.

Stepping outside to grab a bit of fresh air and stretch out the gathering problem of cramp in the calves, I take a stroll over to the Lazar Hall to see preparations being made for a real feast. Long tables beautifully laid and a Serbian musical duo warming up. In the sunshine outside a dozen conversations and in progress and the youngsters are doing what youngsters do the world over - racing around on the grass and inventing their own fun.

Of course the setting isn’t everything, I understand that. People don’t go to the same church each week simply because it looks so appealing no matter how great that appeal may be. But there’s something about the magnificence of this gem of a church which must add a very rare and special ingredient. Once sampled it would be difficult to cut out of your diet.

Serbians are prepared to come from a long way away to visit this church - so should you.

33. Singers Hill Synagogue, Birmingham

Singers Hill Synagogue is home to the city’s Hebrew Congregation and has been the focal point for Jewish worship and community life in Birmingham for 159 years. I’ve been keen to visit this intriguing building since starting my blog.

The pictures of the interior show a beautiful setting steadfastly holding its place as high-rise blocks and thundering ring roads spring up all around it.

Sadly, the pictures on the website and a view of the entrance through high, black railings are all I’m likely to get. I won’t be going in.

The signs were not good from the start, it has to be said. I emailed on more than one occasion to ask about joining a service. I got no reply or acknowledgment. I rang the office but was told it was closed. 

The church family has - as a sweeping generalisation - not really mastered the full online communication experience yet. I’ve signed up with dozens of churches offering to keep me updated and received next to nothing so far. And as for contacting numerous churches, vicars, mosque offices and more than one Rabbi, through their websites - all I can say is that I hope God answers your prayers a lot more efficiently than you answer your emails.

On arriving this morning I find the building locked up and closed off only minutes from the published start of the service. I’m peering through the rails at the closed doors when a high-vis jacketed man I genuinely took to be one of the city’s army of traffic wardens, asks me what I’m doing.

I explain what I’m here for but he’s already decided I’m not going in. I should have emailed or telephoned, he says. I tell him I did but I don’t get the impression my answer fits what he wants to think. A succession of people pass through all shrugging sympathy but the gates stay locked with the only way in for everyone a keypad controlled gate under the control of the security man. 

The Rabbi arrives and, although he is polite and understanding, I am not to be allowed in. I try explaining why I’m here, how I’ve made an effort to get here, what my expectations were and so on. He goes so far as to say that I seem like a genuine person to him - well that’s a blessing of sorts - but that he is not able to help as nobody is allowed in unless they have registered and been cleared by the central authority. He tells me I should email him.

The security man offers the view that the very fact he needs to be there at all is a sad comment on the world we live in these days. He seems to want to offer a lots of comments. I make the observation that the impotency of a church leader to allow someone to come into his place of worship is a far sadder indictment. The Rabbi looks uncomfortable at this.

We’ve all come across the ‘It’s not my fault mate, it’s head office’ excuse before. I’ve encountered it from shop staff, call centre operatives, train companies and more. But never from a church. 

I would have liked to ask the Rabbi what would happen if someone knocked at the door of his Synagogue in genuine peril and desperate for his help. As a patient, and no doubt learned man, I’m sure he’d have an answer, but I’m left feeling my question would have had to get passed one high-vis sentinel and a distinctly unresponsive head office before it would reach him.

The purpose of my visits has never been to judge any particular religion or congregation. I try to come with an open mind, see what goes on and try to pick out what lessons I can learn. 

But in being shown that there is literally no place for me here, am I not being shown with abundant clarity a lesson in the difference between the generosity of welcoming the world with all its faults and risks, and the mean-spiritedness of literally closing the door in that world’s face? 

These are troubling times for many churches. They can attract criticism, abuse and occasional violent action. But on this pilgrimage I’ve been struck by the constant theme of opening up and welcoming all people regardless of their background. I’ve been made to feel at home almost everywhere I’ve been and, perhaps naively, allowed that to become my blanket expectation.

I may email the Rabbi and make a second attempt to join the worshippers here, but I’m not minded to do so at the moment.

Contenting myself with a stroll to the art gallery and the bookshop before getting back on the train, I’m drawn into a conversation with a Muslim man at a stall offering information to the crowded shopping streets of the city. I ask him if he’s worried about being picked on or attacked. He says it’s part of his faith to stand up to challenges in trying to further understanding and spread a message of peace. He gives me a handshake, a huge smile and a free copy of the Quran.

32. Coventry Elim Church, Belgrade Theatre

There are plenty of churches operating away from their home. Those that have homes can end up being displaced for one reason or another and forced to find a new place to meet. This can often be a real threat to existence.

It’s a subject the city of Coventry is having to address at the moment though not in terms of its churches. Coventry City, for a whole host of internecine reasons I’m delighted to say have no place in this blog, will be playing their home games in Birmingham when the new football season starts. They’ve had to do it before and it didn’t work well then. Clearly people want a familiar base, somewhere they can trust and feel at home. Somewhere they identify with.

Coventry’s Elim Church also plays its Sunday games away from home, but not as a result of any problems. Here the need is to find a space to grow. A hugely welcome problem for any church. So it’s through the glitzy foyer of the Belgrade Theatre that I stroll for this Sunday gathering, welcomed by quite the most enthusiastic of welcoming teams. The last time I was in the Belgrade was to see a musical based on the songs of Ian Dury; a fabulous evening of hummable songs, uplifting narrative and with a message of inclusion and togetherness for us all. By the time I’m heading back toward the car, I’m inevitably drawing parallels.

Like most modern Pentecostal services, this one starts with music. There’s a nine-piece band pumping through half an hour of fine, singalong anthems. The lyrics are not quite Charles Wesley and the music considerably less complex than Stanford, but these songs work by being simple to pick up and easy to build into an ecstatic finish. And the band are top-notch. By a joyful quirk of fate I’ve positioned myself a row in front of a woman with a tremendous voice matched only by her desire to share it with the masses. Once I’ve adjusted the hearing aids to cope with the mighty volume, it’s like experiencing the whole gig in surround sound. 

As the band take a well-earned rest we get prayers, parish news on the big screen and a line-up of very young children to be welcomed into the family. It’s certainly a big family. There’s hundreds here today - there will be plenty of touring shows at this venue envious of so few empty seats - and the return to the normal church building next week will mean two services just to cope with the hundreds.

The talk this morning stems from verses from Ezekiel - the passage describing a great river emerging from the ruins of a temple, broadening to become a source of food and life to the whole area. We get to follow the words on the huge, stage-wide screen and we get videos too. In this case it’s a splendid film of this morning’s pastor bravely immersing himself in a very uninviting lake to make the point about the biblical river being a metaphor for our own commitment to faith. We’re all, he says, quite happy to go ankle-deep, but greater rewards will be ours for having the courage and the steadfastness to get right in and swim. Which he then does. It’s a wonderfully visual point, brilliantly made. The fact that he probably froze half to death and risked any number of stomach-crunching diseases to make that point, merely serves to underline how far a committed person may go. I’m still just dipping my toes of course.

It doesn’t end there. The river’s ability to contain, support and sustain life should be, we are told, a reminder to us all to take that hope and love out into the community and help feed those who are hungry, homeless, confused, troubled or afraid. As finale songs go, it’s a strong one and it’s hard not to feel uplifted as the curtain finally falls and the houselights come up. I’m reminded of the comparative hopelessness of the ‘go out and spread the good word’ message which started this blog half a year ago. This, evidently, is how it’s done.

This being a theatre I’m tempted to praise this as an excellently-crafted production. A clear message presented in a richly entertaining way by a faultless, professional cast. And it was. But it’s more than that. In the enthusiasm and sharing of the hundreds who came this is as good an example of a church working perfectly with its members as you could expect to see. By the time Elim returns to the Belgrade after the theatre’s refurbishment, the queues will stretch out of the foyer and round the block. Like the river bursting from the temple, it’ll run and run.

31. Broadgate Spiritualist Church, Coventry

This Sunday being Father’s Day I thought it would be nice to have a chat with my dad. Spend some time together to catch up on news and compare notes on books and cricket. 

The problem with this idea is that my father died almost thirty years ago. By a quirk of fate, last weekend marked the point at which I have now lived more days than he did. I’m now older than my dad. Now that would be worth talking about.

Those of us in the living world have been communing with the dead since time immemorial. Many religions - Taoism for one - still hold it as an essential part of daily worship.

Spiritualism offers perhaps the most overt claims to be able to bridge the gap to the afterlife for you; it’s not just the religion’s USP it’s its entire reason for existence.

This is - so says the wording above the door - the Spiritualists National Church. Inside there are no ministers, no religious trappings and little in the way of church goings-on. There are plain chairs, a hand-written sign asking for our £2.50 donation and a raised podium instead of any altar. It’s less like a church than a church hall really and the turnout of barely a dozen people coated up against the June downpours doesn’t help to dispel a fairly gloomy atmosphere.

Before the service starts I’m given a pep-talk about the value and values of spiritualism. In the company of three other souls who have come here for the first time, I learn such diverse nuggets as how the church doesn’t believe in Jesus as there have been plenty of mediums before and after him, how the church committee is formed and that we all have a coloured aura which our guide is able to see. Mine, she tells me, is yellow and orange. She feels that means an open mind and a willingness to learn. She asks me what orange and yellow means to me. The MCC I tell her, probably scuppering her ‘open mind’ theory in an instant.

The service proper starts with two songs and I find myself singing Rod Stewart’s Sailing to a backing track. It’s a slightly absurd start but not wholly out of keeping with what’s to come. We get a prayer, but that’s the only faintly religious element present.

There is a rather tired stereotype of the spiritual medium experience; a smooth-talking fairground faker preying on the desperate hopes of the naive and terminally credulous. The experience which fills the next hour and a half, I have to say, does nothing to shatter that image.

In the hands of the visiting medium - Daniel, from Leicester, who looks like an estate agent - the information coming from the spirit world is invariably hazy and rather indistinct in its aim. He wonders if anyone knows someone called Mary in the spirit world. Or if anyone had a male figure in their life with brown hair. Woefully inaccurate stabs and generalised drivel follow at a steady pace always delivered as if searched from some indistinct middle distance just above all our heads. It strikes me that I’d back myself to be able to do this without a shred of training. Nobody from this world or the next tells me otherwise.

And then suddenly it is with a degree of dread I realise he’s looking straight at me. He has in mind, he says, a woman of small stature. Not tall. Quite old. With her arms crossed. My grandmother, he wonders? Stunning I say (to myself). I can’t trust myself to hide my lack of belief in this so I let him flounder on until he picks on someone else.

There’s no worship here, only a disappointingly meagre showmanship. I can’t even report that the experience was life-changing for anyone else. There were no truly enlightening moments. 

The dead are always with us all the time. They’re in our thoughts and our memories. They’re in the special places we go or the daft, sentimental traditions we keep. They’re in the way we think and act and, as we get older, they’re there in the face that stares back at us from the mirror. We can reconcile ourselves to their failings, thank them for their love and come to terms with their absence and our loss any time we like. We just have to think. Perhaps if everyone searching for lost communication had the support and help they needed to realise that, there would be no need for rubbish like this.

In the end a perfect vision of my father does appear. But it’s not in the words of Daniel as he acts his oily part on the stage. It stems from a memory I have of my dad and me standing side by side in a church desperately trying to stifle our laughter about something. I can’t remember the cause but it was one of those moments when you are linked by the complete inability to control your body-shaking laughter. You can’t even look at each other for fear of starting the hysterics again. And I know that if he were to appear in flesh beside me now that he’d find this whole pantomime as batty and risible as I do. So perhaps he is speaking to me after all.