Writer and Radio Broadcaster
- Place of Worship
- All Saints Church
- Encouraging each other to become authentic followers of Jesus Christ.
- Totley, Yorkshire S17 4AA
- Church of England
My late early lukewarm Anglican Norman church in the middle of nowhere.
My church. When I joined, it was old as Ancient and Modern, old as the rejoicing hills of the north it squatted under, a village church to go with a village pub and village shop. And the vicar had a daughter who went to private school. All Saints was all stone towers and lancets. Hunched and certain, it was forever as Cranmer. Yet it turned out not to be old at all - the last-ever Norman church in all Derbyshire, jerry built in the 1920s by the local squire to celebrate the Great War, with a little round apse, some fancy zigzagging, a not very rood screen, a new font with no customers, and a bush by the Ikea vestry for us choirboys to initiate each other in. And of course it turned out not to be quite true either. We weren’t all saints. Our voices broke. There was no graveyard. But people still died. And the vicar’s daughter who went to private school? When we finally met, she and I remembered, without saying, our dusty evensongs together, pretending not to notice - me in the empty choir in my boily ruff and her in the nave at the end of the empty second row on the bride’s side, in her itchy uniform. And now? I often walk to All Saints with Maisie (dog is God backwards, and we're always pleased to run and chase and bark round it, my late early lukewarm Anglican Norman church in the middle of nowhere.