I hope it wasn’t the ‘second lobster’ from the nativity play in ‘Love Actually’.

If so moved, a few stay to lift up their heart and voice, to roll up their sleeves and feed the hungry, and / or get dolled up to swing the incense burner or help out at mass. To my mind, St Stephen’s is a patch of old, well-worked soil where the seeds of a radically renewed future overwinter.

They may be just passing through looking for the restroom, or taking a moment to sit down, to look around, wonder, and wait.

I’m coming to the end of a long journey, and it’s one of the few churches that rings true (to my tinny ears ): a frayed, stretched community with blurred borders, where anyone can find and share hope, food, shelter and welcome.

I made the less likely choice, which it turned out he thought was the right one. We worked together for ten years after that and my fear of him evolved into respect, affection and love.

Then one day he stood beside me when I had to make a choice that would determine the course of my whole life thereafter (though I didn’t know quite how radical it would be at the time, because if I’d taken the other route I doubt I’d be having the wonderful life I have now).

It’s my understanding that Boris Johnson was baptized in a Roman Catholic ceremony as an infant, though confirmed in the CoE in his teens. (That is why his first marriage, which did not take place in accordance with RC Church requirements, could be declared null according to RC Canon law.

With Chester as your Aloysius :-)