When I told my friends that I was planning to attend a silent retreat, they all laughed. It’s true that I am something of a convivialist; my idea of heaven is a big table in a warm restaurant, the table shimmering with the laughter of friends and the glugging of wine, and me picking up the bill.
On the other hand, I was a solitary only child and I look back on those days with great fondness. Before the long stagger up the primrose path of pleasure started, the only companion I needed was a book; I well remember my mother crying because I preferred to sit in my room reading rather than hang around on street corners getting drunk and/or pregnant like a normal teenager. Imagine my dismay on discovering that the nearest silent retreat to me was a Catholic one, St Cuthman’s, within an hour of Brighton. But at least my antipathy to the religion would mean that there was no chance of me trying to engage anyone in theological debate, which might not be the case under the care of Protestants.
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