Song of praise

I went to church last Sunday. This will surprise some of my friends. I am not noted as a regular attender of Church of England services. This is not because I don’t believe in God. But our relationship has always been a private one. One in which He or I can make our excuses and leave.

Not that I haven’t been inside plenty of churches. I have always had a great interest in them architecturally. There is an extraordinary beauty and felicity in driving through a country village during the summer and coming across a simple, 12th- century church. There is no light like that which shines through stained glass; all the best efforts of Hollywood in its golden age could not surpass it.

In London I used to attend church at Christmas, usually on Christmas Eve. There is a pretty Georgian chapel in South Audley Street where John Wilkes is buried.