God bless the NHS. Another day, another test, this time an ECG. The evidence is all in and the verdict: hypertension. I eat healthily and exercise regularly, so I’m doing all the right things—apart from choosing my ancestors carefully. (And managing my stress.) Meds it is, and farewell, grapefruit.

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A trip to Birmingham for the 2026 European Athletics Championships. The bishop went to school with Jack Buckner, CEO of UK Athletics. A bit of a school reunion, with a bunch of friends celebrating the 40^th anniversary of Jack’s gold medal in the 5,000m at the same championships in Stuttgart.

The eclipse as viewed through a colander. I did make a pinhole camera too, of course, but my granddaughter preferred this. If I hadn’t known, would I have noticed the eclipse? I might have been puzzled as an uncanny twilight fell mid-evening, but without quite working out what was odd.

How to capture an incredible week spent in the Diocese of Bondo, Kenya? I’m still processing it all. This is me talking briefly about my research and teaching at Manchester Met to the VC and staff of Great Lakes University, Kisumu. Everywhere we went, a warm welcome and joyous hospitality.

Sunset over Lake Victoria. No possibility of swimming here on account of the crocodiles. Even collecting water can prove hazardous, apparently. I’ve had to recalibrate many of my assumptions about what I need to live gratefully and joyfully. I’ll definitely think twice before moaning about the potholes in Sheffield’s roads.

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Sunset over the Atlantic at the start of our two weeks in the Loire Valley. Fingers crossed that this alone will help reduce my blood pressure. We were a long way from the terrible wild fires—France is big—but everything was tinder dry after months with virtually no rain.

Every few years, the bishop and I like to use our limited French to surprise ourselves by ordering raw steak. I was me in Melbourne. This time it was his turn. Still, all he needed to do was wait five minutes for it to cook à point in the sun.

We moved inland for our second week, whiling away one hot lunchtime enjoying a wine tasting and restocking the episcopal cellar. The houses and chateaux of the region are built from the local white tuffeau stone. Mining it creates convenient caves for storage, which are as common as garden sheds.

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The nights were warm and silent. Crickets, an occasional dog barking, and the call of a little owl. We walked the empty lanes and watched the full moon rise over sunflower fields. The air smelt of straw stubble and dark honey, like the complex bouquet of a dry white wine.

Overnight stay in St Malo on our leisurely way back to Caen for the night ferry crossing. The cathedral here is one of my favourites. It fills with blue light as the sun streams through the stained glass. Huddles of votive candles flicker. Someone practices a fugue on the organ.

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Writing on the terrace first thing in the morning before the temperature drives me back indoors. I seem to be back into my routine of weekly chapters, which is how I wrote most of the earlier Lindchester novels. I’m about to take a fortnight’s break though while I’m in France.

Sitting on a plastic chair in Boots waiting for a routine blood pressure check and using the time profitably to run through all the tasks I need to get done before sticking my out of office message on. Also regretting that third coffee and wondering if there’s a loo anywhere.

Sitting in a plastic chair in the Hallamshire hospital waiting for a routine blood test after being diagnosed with possible hypertension. Lessons learned: don’t drink three cups of coffee and sit stressing about your to do list as you wait for your BP to be checked. And have better genes.

Countering possible hypertension with physical exercise. Went for a rest day jog round the reservoir with the bishop. These days the gap between our fitness levels has closed sufficiently to mean people no longer mistake him for my personal trainer. A deceptively cool grey morning which became hot again later.

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We are now in the height of the courgette season. Supply outstrips demand. I spend my time googling ‘courgette recipes’, ‘courgette cake’ and ‘can you make courgette gin?’ Suddenly I understand my mum’s marrow and ginger jam-making sessions. I try giving them away. People start avoiding me in the street.

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Our drone hangs in the pale August sky high over Shotton Edge Farm. Two buzzards glide by in a lazy circle. This bird’s eye view is perfect for seeing the big picture, but it can be tricky to interpret the scene below. Shapes are flattened into 2-dimensions and a square roof from above gives no idea of the building’s height. If it weren’t for the shadows cast by the low sun, we could not distinguish between a wide sprawling bush and a mature tree or tell sheep from alpaca.

Something is moving along the lane. There—a puzzling bubble-gum cluster of pastel colours. It is the shadows that tell us a tall man is walking along carrying three bunches of helium-filled balloons. There is a dog shadow at his heel, and the shadow of a small person scampering ahead. Let us swoop down to investigate.

‘Papa, papa, can I help? Can I carry a pink one? Can I, can I, can I?’

‘Sorry, sweetie,’ replies Ambrose. ‘They’re all tied together. Think you can manage a whole big bunch?’

‘Sure I can!’ Ladybird dances on the spot in her wellies and Elsa costume from Frozen. The fat blonde plait bounces.

Hmm. Ambrose sizes up the task. Like most tasks it would be much simpler without help from a four year old. But he’s been instructed to keep Ladybird out of mischief while urgent work is done on her dress. He realises it’s impossible to tie a loop in the string one-handed, so he wraps it round her wrist a couple of times instead and closes her fingers over the loose end. ‘There you go. Hold them tight or we’ll lose them.’

‘Yeh-yeh-yeh!’ she nods.

‘OK. These ones aren’t not toys, remember. They’re so people know where the party is.’

‘Coolio!’ She whirls away.

‘Mind the hedge!’

The dog reads his tone and is poised for a command. This is Tess, the border collie. She’s a work dog properly trained by Ambrose without any chaotic input from Freddie. You could trust Tess to be ringbearer. Intelligent, responsive, good work ethic—unlike Cosmo and Alfie, of whom the best that can be said is that they aren’t as badly behaved as Bear.

‘Watch the thistles,’ calls Ambrose. ‘You’ll pop— Great.’

‘Oops-y!’ Ladybird waits for him to catch up. She beams at him. ‘Looks like I popped one!’

‘Looks like you did, Birdie.’ He puts a hand on her shoulder and steers her towards the middle of the lane. Maybe he should get Tess to herd her.

‘Wait! How about we breathe a balloon and make our voices go funny again? Please papa, please?’

‘Sorry. We need these for the wedding, remember?’

‘Maybe just one? Daddy lets me.’

‘Um. Do I look like daddy to you?’

‘Um. Nope.’

They reach the first gate. She lets go of the balloons so she can scramble over, but Ambrose has seen this coming. He grabs the string, clamps the other strings briefly in his teeth while he ties Ladybird’s bunch to the gatepost. Yep, he should definitely have added weights.

Ladybird jumps from the top rail. ‘Ta dah! Where’s my balloons?’

‘Oh no! Did you let them go?’

She looks all around her and up at the sky. ‘Oh no!’

‘It’s OK. I caught them. Look.’ He points to the bunch now bustling in the slight breeze. ‘There they are.’

‘Wow! How about I hold another bunch?’

‘Will you be careful?’

‘Yeh-yeh-yeh!’

He hands them over. She’s off again, wellies kicking up clouds of dust as she dances. Ambrose knows she’s being Elsa, twirling in a land of ice fractals. The balloons bob along the rutted lane.

‘Let it go!’ Her voice floats back to him.

Please don’t, he thinks. Well, he can always divide the remaining bunch. Or inflate more. Long years with Freddie have honed his anticipatory firefighting skills.

‘The past is in my ass!’

Ambrose snorts. He gets out his phone and shares this gem on the ‘Birdie Parents and Godparents’ WhatsApp group.

‘Why are you laughing, papa?’ she shouts.

‘Because I’m happy!’ he shouts back. He opens the gate and goes through. Tess follows and the gate clangs shut behind them.

Ha. Look at that. He is happy. He actually is. He’s on his farm with his dog and his little girl. All the headaches of the last month—the thatch, the shower block snagging list, insurance, Neil’s endless control freakery—it all drops away. The day has finally arrived. First wedding at the farm and everything’s in hand. His own beef on the menu—you don’t get more locally sourced than that. Which means he’s established himself as a supplier for Farm to Fiesta. Word will get round. For a moment his spirits wheel up there in big circles with the buzzards. All this has been granted me, he thinks. This is my life now.

There’s a bang!

‘Oops-y! There goes another one!’ sings Ladybird.

‘Oh Birdie!’ Ambrose stirs himself and strides after her. He doesn’t want to end up on the naughty step with Andrew. ‘I’ll take those, thank you very much, Ladybird.’

She grins up at him. ‘Thistles are so spiky-spiky-mikey!’

‘What are you like?’ He shakes his head. Rhetorical. You’re like your dad.

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Showers run in the newly finished block. Loos flush. Body washes and shampoos merge with the smells of fresh paint and new concrete. In the camping field, people wander in the great outdoors with cereal bowls and enamel mugs of tea. We catch the aroma of bacon cooking. Work of Satan! Even veteran vegetarians with decades of meat-free living under their belts have been known to wobble off the plant-based facon wagon when assailed by the smell of sizzling rashers. But there is an even worse torment in the air: the scent of freshly roasting coffee wafting from Shotton Roastery in the old dairy. Dammit! There ought to be a coffee shop on this farm! Why isn’t there a coffee shop? The poshest of the campers wrangle their AeroPresses. The others make do with instant. But darn, that smell! Pure torture.

Brownian motion (at last, my Second Form science comes into its own!) carries the aroma across the farmyard. The coffee molecules will make their way in through an open upstairs window in the farmhouse, where a man sits on the bed carefully detaching pink fabric flowers from a rainbow lei to sew on a bridesmaid’s dress. In a moment, he will raise his head, breathe deeply, and say Ah!

Ah! He’s back outside the deli in the town where he grew up. He loved the smell of roasting beans long before he loved the taste. In his childhood, coffee came from a bottle. My God, that label. The ‘romance’ of the Raj, with a Gordan Highlander in a kilt being served by a Sikh servant. As unremarkable as the marmalade golly back then. Did he ever go in the deli? Probably not. Now he’s remembering the smell of compositor’s ink. His father’s grimed nails. Dad was a skilled artisan in the era before digital typesetting. Sometimes when he’s drifting off to sleep his brain randomly throws up an image of the street corner with the town’s huge Victorian printworks—demolished in the 80s—where dad worked and where he assumed he’d end up apprenticed. But then a job came up in the bank instead.

And the rest is history. You may read it in Theo’s bestselling book. It probably didn’t surprise you to learn that it’s Theo, not Andrew, patiently sewing flowers over the poppy stains. Andrew is busy taking the rehearsal in the Old Thatched Barn and being very kind and tender with Mason and drawing from him the best performance of his life. Andrew is a consummate professional. He doesn’t take out his ill humour on terrified self-taught Glaswegian guitarists. No, that is what his husband is there for.

Theo knows this. He realises that by rescuing the ruined dress, he’ll probably end up being the lightning rod for the Gregory Laird weather front that has just rolled in. His stitchery could easily be framed as an example of the fucking annoying damage limitation he undertakes in the disaster zone that is Dr Jacks. Constantly putting things right. Literally sewing fucking flowers on Andrew’s mistakes, a role which nobody asked him to take on. Etc. Theo knows how this goes. And he’s cool with it.

OMG Theo! Tell us your sorcery, so that we too can sit comfortably with discomfort rather than leaping up like Susanna Henderson to bake cakes for people in every tense scenario for which we are in no way responsible.

*

I will take a brief detour here to reassure you that the second retired bishop invited today is not Paul Henderson, erstwhile bishop of Lindchester. Relax. We will not be on the receiving end of Susanna’s pastoral head tilt when we say we are fine. Neither will we have to witness an awkward reunion between bishop and former chauffeur, thank goodness, or head off an encounter with Fallon, who still hasn’t forgotten the scoop that got away back in 2013. No, the other bishop is lovely Harry, who looked after the diocese during the interregnum and who has been offering mentoring support to Ed during his diagnosis and retirement. Harry will be there with his wife Isobel.

Uh oh.

I’ve just worked out that by avoiding one awkward reunion, I may have accidentally set up another. But surely enough time has passed to mean Isobel and Davy Short (of Short’s Cut Flower Farm) won’t recognise one another. Why, there will be hundreds of guests. Their paths probably won’t even cross. It’ll be fine.

*

But back to Theo. He threads his needle. His tailoring skills aren’t advanced, but he reasons that if he can sew on a button, he can sew on a flower. His phone buzzes. He checks and laughs. Ladybird, what a star you are. He starts stitching the last flower onto the skirt. He hums as he works. So this is love…

Well, of course it’s love. Hoping all things, believing all things, enduring all things, covering a multitude of sins and so forth. But love is not the sum total of Theo’s sorcery, or Mr Dorian would have made steak tartare of his heart back in the pandemic when they were lockdown buddies. The magic he weaves, rather like Andrew’s apparently effortless virtuosic singing, is built on a lifetime’s practice. You would not believe the years of hard work Theo has done on himself. This is why he’s able to make a clear distinction between someone behaving like a complete shit—which he has no control over—and allowing people to treat him like shit.

It occurs to me belatedly that I have failed to describe Theo. All I have afforded you is a glimpse of a half-naked guy reflected in a mirror during a Zoom call in 2020. By now you might have fleshed him out in your imagination and will be deeply annoyed to discover that you’ve pictured him all wrong. I can only apologise and suggest that you skip ahead if you find your blood pressure rising.

So, what does Theo look like? I fear there will be those at the reception who, in a shallow way, confuse Theo with the bishop of Barcup on the fatuous grounds that they are both tall with shaved heads. Oh, for goodness’ sake, take a look at Theo’s personal grooming, people. Surely you can tell that here is a man who is no stranger to the benefits of glycolic acid exfoliating toners and SPF moisturisers. While you’re at it, you might also acknowledge that Theo has the look of a man who would have no problem fitting into a pair of trousers from ten years ago—if he still had anything that outdated in his wardrobe. Finally, I want you to picture the laughter lines that no hyaluronic eye serum will eradicate. This is his punishment for being an inveterate piss-taker. They are evident even now, when he is frowning in concentration as he carefully does three little stiches on top of one another and bites off the thread.

Done! He shakes the dress out and holds it at arm’s length. Not perfect, but a pretty good improvisation in a crisis. He lays it on the bed, gathers up the depleted lei and takes it to Ladybird’s bedroom where he found it. Ladybird favours a horizontal approach to clothes and toy storage, so Theo picks his way carefully across the carpet, almost treading on a Cinderella music box and crushing it to smithereens. Yikes. He puts it safely on the dressing table where it tinkles a half a phrase before cutting out. This is the miracle— He hangs the lei back on the mirror and goes downstairs for another coffee. Made with Shotton Roastery beans, but the poor campers will never know.

Far off on the northbound carriageway, the jazz singer is also humming So this is love, unaware that someone else will end up singing this number during the signing of the register. There will be plenty of opportunity for improvisation in a crisis today when the imagined perfection of Plan A proves impossible. Let it go. Stop battering yourself against the implacable truth like a blue bottle at a shut window. The past is in your ass. And who knows—a chaotic Plan B might prove even more glorious, if you can only stay still long enough to feel the breeze from the open door behind you, blowing from the paradise you didn’t dare hope for.

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What is the fitting gift for a second born son about to be ordained priest? A box for his dog collars and a book token to buy Bible commentaries. We headed south during the first heatwave and found our daughter-in-law and granddaughters camped out in the bottom of the house.

The ordination was wonderful, but a long hot service, with the hum of fans and the flapping of service booklets. It must have been a nightmare wearing vestments. Moving to see our son in his grandpa’s stole. I get to queue-jump at the pearly gates now he’s a priest, apparently.

Last weekend was a gathering of the Glory Consortium, which is how I and my four pals style ourselves. One member was celebrating her 40^th birthday and wanted to mark this by cooking us an 8-course tasting menu with paired wines. Who were we to rain on her birthday parade?

Another heatwave. I’ve been spending the first part of each day on our terrace writing before the heat droves me back indoors. The air is a pitched battle between the scent of jasmine and the pungent stink of fox. These hollyhocks were grown from seeds gathered in my parents’ garden.

On Thursday my sister and I scattered my dad’s ashes where we’d scattered my mum’s three years ago. Heat and stillness. The ash fell with a soft hiss into the grass, then the dust rose like white smoke. It leant on the faint breeze, drifted a moment, and vanished. Farewell.

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On that day the wedding guests will deck themselves out in what the late Miss Sherratt called their Hightum, lest Neil (like the King in the parable) should cast them from the banquet into outer darkness for not wearing a proper wedding garment. Neil wouldn’t do this really. (Would he?) The guests reassure themselves that the invitation exhorts everyone to wear what makes them feel fabulous. So, if you feel fabulous in your Buzz Lightyear suit, then go for it. (Especially if your bridesmaid’s dress is covered in poppy stains.)

But how to hit the sweet spot between fabulousness and comfort on a hot day in August with the threat of thunderstorms in the late afternoon? Obviously, you choose a weather app not currently showing a lightning bolt, so you can at least dispense with umbrellas and raincoats. Not all my guest can throw insane amounts of money at the problem. Even if they could splash out on a Fortuny gown, few would choose to do so. Jane, as we have seen, needed all the robust support of her half-sisters to get her credit card out in Selfridges and pay full price for a jumpsuit barely in the ‘attainable luxury’ bracket. She is right to imagine that some people would be scandalised by even this modest extravagance when there are plenty of preloved options out there. But who, pray, is to feed garments into the top of the upcycling chain if nobody is ever allowed to buy anything new? To say nothing of the fact that this jumpsuit will probably see Jane out. Ah, but Jane, did you do your homework? Did you investigate the environmental and socioeconomic impact of your jumpsuit’s manufacture, construction and marketing? Might there not have been a more ethical and sustainable alternative?

Jane need not trouble herself to answer these questions as this conversation is only happening in the confines of her head. She steps out of the shower and begins her product and scrunching routine on her curls. Even if the seating plan places Jane on the same table as Leah Rogers, we needn’t fear fisticuffs. The intervening four years have not eroded Leah’s fierce activism, but right now she has more urgent things to stress about than Jane’s consumer choices. In no particular order, mass extinction, systemic inequality, the plight of Palestinians—Leah saw this up close when she spent part of her gap year volunteering on the Olive Harvest Solidarity programme—the surge of the far right, and an army of dickheads asking inappropriate questions and telling her she’s mad to turn down a place at Oxford to read PPE in favour of a degree in history and politics at her local university of Lindford. And telling her she’s ruining her prospects. Hello? Like she’s hasn’t thought her choices through and made informed responsible decisions about her life? FFS.

If I can just confide in you for a moment dear reader, there is one person whose disappointment Leah is not looking forward to navigating, and that’s Ms Logan. Rachel gave up hours of her busy life to coach Leah through the Oxbridge application process. But it is what it is.

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I’m beginning to wonder if I can hold everything together on this big day. But as we have seen, this does not fall to your author alone. Carrie Logan is at the helm and this is not her first rodeo. The canapes will be properly chilled. Nobody will get salmonella and start looking round for someone to sue. (And even if they do, both Carrie and the venue are insured to the hilt.) The hot air balloon guy has understood the brief. The flowers have already arrived. The musicians know what they are supposed to be singing. The best man has agreed to limit his speech to twelve sentences.

But who is the wedding celebrant? Who is there in the whole of the Diocese of Lindchester—nay, the whole of the UK—capable of withstanding the arrow hail of Neil’s microinstructions and more importantly, of conducting their role with aplomb, unintimidated by the army of professionals who, with folded arms and narrowed eyes, will be scrutinising their performance and measuring it against the Anglican service of Holy Matrimony? For on that day there will be priests innumerable to say nothing of four bishops, (two retired, two serving). That’s enough to give any secular celebrant stage fright.

Anyone, except the person recommended to Neil and Ed by Carrie Logan. Huzzah for Carrie! She knew exactly the right man for the job. A mere one-day wedding with a couple of hundred guests is barely a blip on Joshua Iwobi’s radar, brought up as he was on multi-day extravaganzas with a thousand guests—invited and uninvited. He comes from a church background—you better believe he does! But he’s never moved in C of E circles. What are bishops that he is mindful of them? Josh drove over from Brum yesterday and has spent the night in the air b&b in Gayden Magna that Carrie booked for him. He’s currently dancing around the kitchen in his boxers getting some breakfast and singing along to The Proclaimers. Da-da da da! He likes to listen to the wedding playlist in advance so he can channel the vibe.

If we were to peep into the bedroom, we would see not one but two tuxedos hanging from the wardrobe door. The first is gold and has a matching hat. He will wear this for conducting the ceremony. The second is powder blue and crystal-embellished and is for the reception and party. Are they fabulous? Are they ever! They are giving fabulosity the way only Nigerian tailoring can. Don’t worry, Neil has okayed this. Indeed, he chose the suits from the twenty or so alternatives in the ‘Wedding togs’ zip file Josh sent over. Any colour except black, basically. Because if he wears a black tux to white people’s weddings, the white people think he’s wait staff. Bless them.

‘I’m gonna be the man that ties the knot for you!’ sings Josh. He points at the toaster. The toast pops up on cue Da-da da da! He points at the kettle. It boils and clicks off. He points at the microwave where the milk jug is rotating. He snaps his fingers at it. It pings. Thank you.

‘And I will charge five HUNdred pounds, and I will charge five HUNdred more! Just to BE the man who’d charge a thousand POUNDS to get you hitched for sure!’

That is indeed what Josh will be charging. By contrast, the statutory fee for a church wedding is £723 (£605 if it’s your home parish.) This covers use of the building, lighting, ministry time, and all related administration and it doesn’t land in the pocket of the clergy person taking the service. But as the clergy person taking the service probably lives in tied accommodation and gets paid a regular stipend (rather than being self-employed with a mortgage to pay), fair dinkum. I think Josh will more than earn his fee today. In any case, it’s not just today. There’s a lot of prep and handholding to make sure that the ceremony is exactly what the couple want. He’s conducted two lengthy interviews to get a sense of Ed and Neil and to coax them into trusting him. Part of his gift is getting people to loosen up and have a good time. Everyone from the most uptight control freaky bride- or groomzilla, through disgruntled exes, embarrassing uncles, down to the tiniest most tearful flower girl, Josh will draw them into the force field of his joy.

And breathe.

We will not enquire into the overall budget. That is none of our business. We will merely speculate furiously like good Anglicans. Neil and Ed will be paying the registrar’s fee for the statutory ceremony, of course, along with the fee for Giving Notice. This much is in the public domain. We can also go on the Shotton Farm website and check the cost of venue hire. It’s all above board and professional, by the way. Chloe jumped through the correct hoops to get the grant of approval to hold civil marriages and civil partnerships in The Old Thatched Barn. Its situation has been declared ‘seemly and dignified.’ Chloe is across all the right public liability, and insurance for property and buildings and events cancellation. In fact, this is shaping up to be the perfect job for her once Ladybird starts school this September.

The Dorian Singers have been roused by their director and are stirring. Showers run. Coffee is brewing. As our drone dangles outside the converted stables, bursts of song escape through open windows. Good. We buzz away to the Old Thatched Barn. The scent of Norfolk reed rises as the sun begins to warm the roof. From inside we hear strange shrieks and whistles. It’s the sound crew setting up in the area behind the banks of pastel coloured hydrangeas. Andrew is there ensuring correct microphone placement. One tttwo! One tttwo! Then comes a snatch of the ‘Arrival of the Queen of Sheba’, cut off in mid-phrase. Surely Handel’s not on the playlist? Correct. But if Neil is going to insist that an a cappella group must use a naff backing track for two of their numbers, then he ought to have foreseen that Mr Dorian will indulge in evil mind games.

Elsewhere in the Diocese of Lindchester other rehearsals are taking place. Mason still plays his guitar in the foyer of the Premier Inn, practising his intricate fingerpicks and palm mutes, his hammer-ons and pull-offs. In the four bedroom house in Lindford, Jess Rogers has just finished her clarinet practice in the dining room. She dismantles her instrument and stows it back in its case. We are a long way from those early days of honking painfully through Brahms lullaby. Jess is working towards her Grade 8. Now she stands tall and draws a long breath, expanding her diaphragm, before starting her scales and vocal exercises. She won’t be singing at the wedding, but oh, she wishes she were! To be part of the Dorian Singers! Who she’s actually going to meet! Squee! Mr H-M has promised to introduce her properly to Dr Jacks so that when she’s older and if he’s ever looking for a light soprano with a range suited to Renaissance and Baroque repertoire who can sightread and is super accurate and can do the ornamentation, he might, just might think of her? She’s got her piece ready (Vivaldi, Nulla in Mundo) so she’s not wrong-footed if he says Sing Something, and then afterwards goes Hmm, like she just farted (Mr H-M’s impression LOL). Probably he won’t, he’ll be super busy, but it never hurts to be prepared.

I’m glad Jess is prepared. I happen to know she will not be required to reach for her Vivaldi in order to impress Dr Jacks. She doesn’t know it yet, but she will be singing today. She will stand in at short notice for the jazz singer during the signing of the register, because the jazz singer will be stuck on the motorway. And Jess will rise to the occasion with a heartbreakingly beautiful rendition of ‘My love is like a red, red rose’.

But that’s in the future. For now, everything seems—dare I say this?—to be pretty much under control. Our drone rises, rises, to take in the whole scene. Have we forgotten anything? Unasked, Jack sweeps the courtyard clear of leaves released by the drought-stricken lime trees. The florists have finished. Paver has carefully placed a treasure chest on each table. The catering is in hand and the champagne is chilling. Over in Turlham, the best man is still at his laptop in the Cape Cod room, in danger of forgetting brunch. He’s bashing out another steamy encounter in his magnum opus. Her nipples jostle like — He pauses. How do nipples jostle? I will spare you, reader. Fallon will continue privately to admire his clever washing machine imagery and be unable to see what the hell everyone’s laughing about when this scene wins him the Bad Sex Award. Rather than the Bollinger Everyman Wodehouse Prize for comic fiction which he knew he’d be a shoe-in for. But that too is in the future.

It occurs to me that you are mentally running through your list of bishops to work out who the second the retired one is. Oh no, don’t tell me Paul Henderson is coming? I will toy with you a little longer and instead take you to visit our stout hero the bishop of Barcup. He is currently in his study cracking on with his inbox and winding his wife up by claiming he feels fabulous in cargo shorts and that this is what he’ll be wearing.

‘On your bald head be it,’ says Jane. ‘Don’t blame me if Neil takes out a CDM against you for conduct unbecoming.’

‘No sufficient substance. The bishop will dismiss it. The thing is, I can’t get my wedding suit trousers on over my knee brace,’ explains Matt.

Jane laughs her filthy laugh. ‘You can’t get them on over your gut, more like. Go on, what are you really wearing?’

‘You remember my David Bowie tribute outfit? Neil loved that, so I thought I’d—’

But Jane flings her hands up and flounces off, leaving him to his little games. She is perfectly attired for flouncing. There’s nothing like a scarlet Hollywood dressing gown with feather trim for making a grand exit. Unless you shut your sleeve in the door. She extricates herself and heads to the kitchen where she pours a second cup of coffee to take out into the garden. If it crosses her mind to go nosing about in Matt’s half of the wardrobe she’ll find a new pair of cream chinos hanging there, teamed with a nice pale pink shirt. The fabric is sprinkled with hot coral flamingos to complement her outfit.

The hot air balloon truck makes its way down the lane. Jack is there waiting to direct him to the right field. Another flock of rose-ringed parakeets flies squeaking over. Andy and Theo, (the alpacas, not the men), play fight in the field down near the river.

The temperature rises.

For now, traffic is still flowing reasonably freely on the motorway. As ever, there are roadworks. Rachel Logan is about to pull off at the service station for a wee and double espresso, so she doesn’t fall asleep at the wheel. The jazz singer has just merged onto the northbound carriageway, already fully caffeinated and not expecting to make a pitstop. Overhead signs admonish that drug driving costs lives. The white car has set off from the drive in Hertfordshire. It needs a wash, but you can clearly see the ichthus sticker in the rear window. Tyre pressure is fine. Boot not overloaded. Tread well above the legal minimum depth. Every reasonable care has been taken. What more can we do?

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‘And how does it feel to be back, carissima?’ enquires Gene of the former dean of Lindchester.

‘Honestly, Gene! We’ve been gone less than four months,’ says Marion. ‘It doesn’t feel like anything much.’

It’s 8am. 6hrs till the ceremony. Gene and Marion are sitting on the terrace at Turlham Hall boutique hotel. This is the place Neil renovated during the pandemic, turning it into a cabinet of curiosities, with each room channelling a different vibe. They have spent the night in the fifty shades of blue that characterise the Chefchaouen room. Gene has continued this theme into his outfit, and we must take a moment to admire his white Panama (once the second most expensive piece of headwear in the Diocese of Lindchester), his white flannel trousers, pale blue Prada shades and his gorgeous periwinkle blue silk shirt. Mr Dorian himself would not scorn to sport those white suede loafers. And this is merely Gene’s breakfast get-up, not his wedding gear! I can’t wait to see how he interprets the pastel colours brief. Marion, I am sorry to tell you, is letting the side down in yesterday’s wrinkled linen. She’s saving her finery—the dress Gene brought back from his Venetian vineyard tour. Marion fears it was rather pricey. She’s right about that. The full extent of its priciness will never occur to her, though. Gene knows he’s safe from shocked remonstrance. His beloved cannot distinguish between an iconic Fortuny Delphos gown and a Designer at Debenhams frock—any more than she can tell a 1999 Vintage Salon Blanc de Blancs le Mesnil Champagne from Tesco’s Finest.

They are sitting in the farthest corner of the terrace under the shade of an apple tree. The last few weeks have been so hot that the poor apples have all but stewed on their twigs. A slight breeze rustles the dry leaves and languidly ripples the skirts of the patio umbrellas. The scent of lavender wafts from the nearby wooden planters where bees are already busy. Marion has just consulted her Merlin Bird identifier app and those are coaltits foraging for insects high up in the monkey puzzle tree.

Oh perfect summer morning before the temperature soars! But this is not why Gene and Marion have come down early for breakfast. They are hoping to avoid the best man who they overheard checking in yesterday evening and being difficult about his room. Gene doesn’t trust the Gossip Whore of Grub Street not to buttonhole Marion over her croissants for a scoop on the cathedral’s safeguarding fiasco.

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The mischief’s out: the best man is journalist Roderick Fallon. Why, Neil, why, when you know everyone hates him? Och never mind why. He’s an old pal. Neil has chosen him, and that’s that. Roddy will make a witty speech, and this is important, for Neil has decreed that the speeches shall not be tedious on the Big Day.

Well, I suppose Neil is right. Fallon will be funny, if to be funny—let us quote Austen again—is to be continually abusive without saying anything just. That is certainly the journalistic signature dish which he serves up in his weekly ‘political’ column, heaping up those clever ad hominem/feminam attacks. But boo-hoo, snowflake—vulgar abuse doesn’t constitute defamation. Whether he genuinely holds the right-wing views he articulates, nobody really knows. Does he know, even? Perhaps he’s addicted to the blistering crackle of liberal sacred cow under his Juvenalian blowtorch. Or maybe he just likes the tabloid fee he can command these days. Whatever. We will affect not to care, since taking no notice is probably our only tactic against the likes of Fallon, safe as he is in the sniper pose of satire’s rooftop.

A waiter arrives to take Gene’s and Marion’s breakfast order. Marion resists the temptation of Turlham Hall’s Viennoiserie selection, reasoning that there will be empty carbs enough at the reception. I salute her. Weaker mortals might argue that all dietary bets are off on a wedding day.

When the waiter leaves, Marion puts a hand on Gene’s arm and leans close. She sees herself reflected in his sunglasses. ‘Darling, I don’t know if I can find another way of telling you that I’m OK. I’m at peace with it all.’

Gene inclines his head. That should be enough for him, of course. He knows she genuinely means it. But he is not quite ready, as the Psalter has it, to leave off from wrath and let go displeasure over the way his beloved has been treated. Heavens to Betsy, in any hospital or post office, in the GP surgeries and railway stations of the land, in any workplace or business in the UK one might encounter signs saying, ‘We will not tolerate abuse towards our staff’. Everywhere, in short, except the C of E, where there is no code of conduct apart from a general wave in the direction of WWJD and being a good egg. And where the most egregious misogynistic abuse, harassment and threatening behaviour must be Christianly sucked up when it is being dished out by survivors.

Gene realises that Marion is still looking at him sorrowfully. He rouses himself. ‘If only the days of duelling weren’t over!’ he laments. ‘I could dash a glass of champagne in Steveangelical’s face at the reception and call him out. Then I’d be at rest.’

‘Well, please don’t,’ says Marion. ‘Poor Steve. He’s had his share of recrimination without us adding to it. Let’s just enjoy today. All right? For Ed’s and Neil’s sake.’

There’s a taut pause.

Then Gene inclines his head again. ‘Oh, very well. I promise to smile at him and Sonja-Sonja. Then slag him off behind his back in the time honoured English way.’ Marion sighs. ‘Ah! Caffeine approaches! Joy to the world! Are you sure you can’t be tempted to a cheeky glass of Nyetimber as you wait for your birdseed?’

‘It’s granola. And no thank you darling.’

Perhaps the day will come when Gene can make his peace with the fact that he will never be able to make his peace with this. The knowledge that he failed. That all his fieldish plotting and cunning deployment of resources were not sufficient to offset Marion’s misery and head off her wise decision to take early retirement.

Their caution in breakfasting early was unnecessary. Fallon, as we know, will be joining the grooms for brunch at the Old Chapel in Itchington Episcopi at ten. He’s just stirring in the Old Cape Cod room. He reaches for his phone, scans the news, checks his messages and email. So Gregory Laird’s dead. Obit request. He zaps off an acceptance. Wait—the Dorian Singers are performing during the ceremony. Good. He can nab Jacks for a quote. Or more? What, what is it? He snaps his fingers rapidly. There’s definitely some history there that’s never come out. Witness Laird’s relentless campaign of dissing anything Jacks has a hand in. Fallon scans his memory banks, does a quick Google search. Hmm. Looks as though Jacks has maintained an unblemished 100% record of No Comment down the years. Zero comeback to any of Laird’s excoriating reviews—some of which Fallon himself would struggle to improve upon. So, what’s all that about? Well, he’ll ferret it out.

Fallon tosses his phone back on the distressed chalk-white nightstand and yawns. In a moment he’ll get up and bang out another few pages of his novel. Oh, he loves this new venture fiercely. The luxury of having 80,000 words to unleash his skewering observations of human foibles! No individual or institution will escape the scourge of his wit! His agent is already wetting herself over the bidding war she’ll whip up.

The muslin drapes waft gently in the breeze. He can hear voices and the chink of cutlery on the terrace below. He was originally booked into Narnia but demanded a switch because he hates C.S.Lewis. He’s well aware this booking was a bit of Ferguson mischief. Anyway, he nipped it in the bud and never fear; he’ll have his revenge during his best man’s speech. Ha. No doubt Neil will be going over the ground rules again during brunch and admonishing him to play nice. He’s permitted a maximum of twelve sentences in which to propose a toast to Ed and Neil. Got that? Twelve sentences, pal.

Fallon stetches his long limbs out under the soft nautical themed linen bedding and grins wolfishly. Neil has forgotten—if indeed Neil ever knew—that there are entire full-length novels comprised of a single sentence. Fallon has agreed to the rule. But as for playing nice? If you don’t like my hornets, don’t poke my nest. Pal.

You may also have been wondering, (I trust more compassionately than Fallon), what is going on with Andrew. We will guide our drone swiftly from Turlham back to Shotton Edge Farm, where we will find him sitting on a white horse. Freddie stands fiddling with the gold, red and turquoise harness. Ladybird is beside him bouncing up and down on an elephant. Oh, I perhaps ought to have mentioned they are all on the vintage carousel Neil has hired for the afternoon and evening entertainment.

‘No, I’ve told you, sweetie,’ says Freddie. ‘The guy isn’t here to turn it on yet.’

‘You turn it on!’ shouts Ladybird.

‘I don’t have the key, baby girl.’ He turns to Andrew. ‘Dude, listen, sorry you had to find out that way.’

‘Who better to hear it from?’ Topic closed, says his tone.

‘Daddy, this is my flying elephant, she’s called Good Driver! Do you know why she’s called Good Driver?’

‘No, tell me.’

‘Because she’s a Good Driver!’

Freddie nods. ‘Makes sense.’

‘She can concentrate on the driving AND answer questions!’ says Ladybird.

‘Ha ha, awesome! Is that what mummy says in the car by any chance?’

But Ladybird is no longer listening.

Freddie glances up at Andrew on his fancy horse. Assessing mood… A-a-and that’s a hard no. Not gonna be a Good Driver answering questions. Totally fair. ‘Um. Yeah, so anyway, just to give you the heads up, you know the best man is Roderick Fallon?’

‘And he is...?’

‘Dude! Only the journo Roderick Fall—Gah.’ Suckered again. He raises his hands. ‘OK, OK. Backing off now, backing off.’

‘Thank you.’ Andrew dismounts. ‘I need to think about rousing my singers. Rehearsal at ten. Be there, my child.’

‘On it, Mister Director!’ Freddie salutes.

‘Daddy, look at me, daddy, daddy, daddy! I’m standing on Good Driver!’

‘Whoa, hold tight! Watch your dress, sweetie. Oh man, what’ve got all over it?’ Freddie goes over to bat at the stains. ‘Aargh! What is this stuff? Chloe’s gonna kill me.’

‘It’s from the poppies,’ explains Ladybird. ‘Dandy and I picked them.’

‘Omigod!’ Freddie rounds on Andrew. ‘You let her pick poppies? Look alive, Dandy! You had ONE JOB.’

Oops! Let us take to the skies. Down below we spot the parade of delivery vans as they trundle down the lane, stopping for every gate. First the florists delivering dozens of tubs of hydrangeas, all the faded pastel shades. These will be massed at the front of the Old Thatched Barn for the ceremony and given a good long drink. The staff at Short’s Cut Flower farm have been busy for days, gathering the approved blooms and foliage, cleaning and conditioning them in the cool of the old dairy. Oh, the pale blues and mauves, delicate pinks, palest yellows and creams, the merest hint of sherbet orange. This is the palette of childhood sweeties: refreshers, flying saucers, love hearts, candy necklaces, with dream topping clouds of gypsophila and white astilbe. This morning, they were up at the crack of dawn making buttonholes to store in the big fridge at the farm and arranging centrepieces for the tables—which the company hired by Neil will soon be laying with pastel tablecloths and napkins, ready for the white china and proper silver cutlery. Once the flowers are properly bestowed, Davy and his wife will return home to open their shop. But they will be back to join the evening celebrations.

I’m aware that I need to recalibrate your impression of the guest list. It’s all sounding a bit rebarbative, what with Gene and Fallon. Before long our lovely long-retired bishop Bob Hooty and his wife Janet—a retired midwife—will be getting in their little white car and heading back to Lindfordshire. Of course Neil has invited the Hootys! You don’t save a man’s life then omit him from your guest list! He has relinquished his dearest dream that Bob would marry them. He accepted long ago that this is not legally possible. They cannot have a religious ceremony. No prayers, no hymns. There will be a brief legal thing with the registrar, the a secular wedding celebrant will take over proceedings.

Here comes the first catering van, Field to Fiesta, groaning with locally sourced delicacies. They will set up their kitchen in the smaller marquee. I don’t know the details. Let us gesture sweepingly and assert that everything necessary in the way of stoves and fridges is already in place. It will all be fine. Neil can relax.

You will be relieved to learn that Neil has a trusty deputy in his old neighbour, Carrie Logan. Neil and Ed know her from their days in Gayden Magna vicarage, when Carrie and her consultant husband lived in The Old Rectory. Carrie owns her own wedding planning company, and as Ed pointed out, it would be rude not to employ her. Afterall, she has all the contacts, knows all the local suppliers. (Well played, Ed.) During the last year, Carrie’s job has been to follow Neil’s instructions to the letter, smooth over any little difficulties in executing his dream, and then (Ed’s only other stipulation) she is to prise Neil’s hands off his spreadsheets on the evening before the big day. Furthermore, she is to demand that he cease and desist his endless chasing of people to check they know what they’re meant to be doing, and then formally cede all control to her, so that he can focus on being a groom.

Five hours till the ceremony. The grooms are sitting in their little garden at the back of the chapel. I say garden. It’s actually the small graveyard where old Baptists slumber until the trumpet shall sound and the dead shall be raised incorruptible. Ed is sitting on the specially commissioned wooden porch swing, rocking himself gently with a toe on the York patio stones. Their wedding music playlist is going in the background.

Neil is crouched on the grass brushing Bear’s newly trimmed coat. Keeping his hands busy because Ed’s confiscated his phone. Klaxons keep going off in his head. Things he might have forgotten. Possible cockups he needs to avert.

‘Shit! I didn’t double-check the hot air balloon guy knows where to—’

‘Ssh! Carrie’s got it all in hand.’

‘Yes, but—’

‘Ah ah!’ Ed raises a finger.

Neil retreats, muttering into Bear’s fur. He knows he’s a nano-second away from being safe-worded. There’s a pause between tracks on the playlist.

Ed smiles at him. ‘You’re still the one,’ he says. Then Shania’s voice comes from the smart speaker.

‘Och,’ says Neil. He wipes his eyes.

Yes, in spite of everything, it looks like they’ve made it to the big day.

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The dining room ahead of an evening meal with assorted civic guests. Time was when I cooked for these occasions, but I’ve given myself permission to be more Jane Rossiter than Susanna Henderson (Lindchester reference there). Please admire the inglenook fireplace which was boarded up when we first moved here.

Midsummer’s day and perfect running weather. It’s mad squirrel season with juveniles engaging in highspeed chases along branches. There were four scampering along the path ahead of me as a car approached. A heart-stopping moment before they made a good choice and headed into the hedge rather than the road.

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This early purple orchid appeared during the first lockdown, when it had a single flower spike. Each April, you’ll find me scouring the grass as if hunting for a dropped contract lens. When I glimpse the spotted leaves, I mark the place with a stick, so it doesn’t get mown.

Al fresco writing in the early morning before I’m driven indoors by the heatwave. I’m on Chapter 5 of On That Day, embodying what my colleague Joe Stretch calls ‘wild trust’. I don’t really know what’s going to happen until it unspools on the page a word at a time.

Today it’s outdoor hospitality, this time for training incumbents—those gold dust clergy who look after and mentor curates through their first placement. It’s cooled off a bit now, so I hope they aren’t melting. This is ‘shorts under cassock’ weather. Spare a thought for anyone getting ordained this weekend.

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Our drone hovers over Grey’s Reclamation yard here in picturesque Turlham. Before long, the first rays of sunshine will reach the two hives that stand on the edge of the grounds. The worker bees will wake and go out foraging for nectar that will make this year’s Lindchester Cathedral honey. You may remember that the cathedral relocated its bees in 2021 from the deanery garden, in case school children with allergies got stung and litigious parents sued the Dean and Chapter. I am happy to report that these days there are three cathedral hives in the palace garden over on the opposite side of the Close, safely distant from the playground. These two refugee hives have remained at Grey’s, adding to the ‘complex multi-dimensional flavour of this polyfloral honey’, as the label informs us.

There go the first workers now. We resist the temptation, as they buzz away, to liken them to tiny versions of our narrative drone; for we know that in the bee world, drones are the male members of the colony, and their only purpose in life is to mate with a virgin queen in mid-air. These workers we are watching are infertile females. They’ve drawn the short straw, you say? Let’s not forget what happens to the drone once his airborne ecstasy is over.

Several bees make for the roses in the June Garden while others head to the August Garden. They are all guided by such mysteries as polarised light patterns and earth’s magnetic field. Humans may prefer to rely on the free leaflet as they follow the Birth Flower Garden trail. Back in 2021, the August Garden was dispersed any- and everywhere. These days it’s concentrated in one spot, where a forest of papaver somniferum stands over a metre tall. You have never seen such poppies! Petals like silk skirts of orange-red, mauve, white. The glaucous stems and leaves seem sheened with the very blue hour itself. Those black splashed centres tempt in pollinators with the false promise of a secret cavern. What does poppy honey taste like? Nothing at all. There’s no nectar on offer here. The bees are here for the pollen. There they go from flower to flower, tidily and efficiently collecting and compacting. Later, when the warmth of the sun revs up the bumblebees, they’ll be here too. They are much more effective pollinators, blundering fuzzily about in the stamens in messy bliss.

These poppies, dear reader, are descendants of the ones that bloomed in Miss Sherratt’s garden. You may remember Jack harvesting the seeds and distributing them to all manner of people, who in turn gave seeds to their friends and neighbours. I wonder whether there is a single street in the diocese of Lindchester where you cannot find the great, great, great grandchildren of Miss Sherratt’s poppies growing.

It turns out that the bees were not the first to be up and busy, though. Look. The kitchen light is on in the corrugated iron barn where Ellis Grey lives with his cousin Paver. If we look in, we will see Ellis making tea and toast. He pauses, teapot in hand, arrested for a moment by the music playing on his radio. Yes, it’s that Brahms intermezzo, tugging heartstrings across Lindfordshire and further afield, wherever Radio 3 happens to be playing.

In a minute we will see Paver emerge from the studio in the repurposed freight container near the hives. Paver will be carrying a carboard box to Ellis’s van. The box contains six wooden treasure chests filled with puzzles and toys and curiosities. There will be one placed on each of the twenty-six round tables in the marquee where the reception will take place, commissioned by Neil to while away the wait for food and to occupy restive guests during the speeches. This means Paver will be making several journeys. Six, probably. Four journeys with six boxes, then two more to carry the last two one at a time (one being a safe number). Unless Paver can hang loose either to the idea of an odd number of journeys, or to carrying an odd number of treasure chests. That could happen, for sure it could. On any given day, you can’t prejudge how the weird maths of OCD is going to play out. How you’ll feel. How the numbers will sit in your mind and body.

Perhaps, dear reader, crunching numbers is your thing too. Twenty-six round tables, each seating eight (or ten at a pinch). That means Neil and Ed are expecting between 208 and 260 guests for the sit-down meal. In fact, I happen to know they are catering for 250. Then there’s the evening party, to which at least a hundred more are invited for a busy schedule of assorted treats (disco, Scottish reels, hog roast, fairground rides, jazz and acapella concert, karaoke). Neil has taken a Sound of Music approach and maxxed it. He will be dishing up all of his favourite things. (Well, not quite all. The waiters will be fully clothed, we hope.) If not now, when? No point deferring the jamboree till his wake, when he won’t be around to enjoy it (or make sure it’s done properly). Not that he’s planning on dying any time soon, mind. But it’s fair to say Ed’s diagnosis jolted them into seize the day mode. He’ll not be putting off happiness till somewhere over the rainbow. Spend that magic penny, is Neil’s motto! He’s been spending his real literal pennies as well, in this Babette’s Feast of a wedding. His credit card might need a wee spot of R&R after this.

All is still quiet in the Premier Inn, Lindford, where the Glasgow branch of the Ferguson clan gathered yesterday. We won’t hear a peep out of them until they herd downstairs at the last possible moment to hit the breakfast buffet. For now, they sleep. All except one, who has crept from his room, leaving his older brother snoring. He’s entering the foyer now, looking for somewhere to practice his guitar. For one giddy moment we think we must have time travelled, for surely this is Neil, aged 16! Look! The instantly recognisable bantam build, that black hair, those manic blue eyes—but no. This is Mason, who is some kind of first or second cousin.

Mason approaches the reception desk and blurts a question. He gestures with his guitar to demonstrate. The guy on the desk (having not understood a word, but guessing correctly) says, ‘Sure. Knock yourself out, mate.’ So Mason sits and starts tuning his precious vintage Gibson. The guy on the desk nods encouragingly. Mason blushes the way only a shy 16 year old can, and plunges a little jerkily into the first piece Uncle Neil’s requested for before the ceremony. Farewell to Stromness. He closes his eyes and sinks down into the music, willing himself to forget where he is, that he’s an idiot who just blushed at the reception guy, that he’s also got to play (oh god) with a group of vocalists, which he’s never done before, and when he googled them he discovered, shit! they’re only massively famous, except he’d never heard of them, and his dad wouldn’t let him off, because he’s promised Uncle Neil, and anyway, the ceremony booklets have all been printed, and he’s meant to be rehearsing with the group (oh god oh shit) at 10am, aunty Carrie’s driving him. All this fades as his fingers do their thing without him thinking. The music fills the foyer. Other staff hear and draw close. An early riser in need of a vape also pauses at the foot of the stairs, waiting. The piece ends. Silence. Then a burst of applause and Mason crashes to earth blushing and muttering into his fingerboard.

Would you like a sneak preview of the booklet, reader?

Music before the ceremony:

‘Farewell to Stromness’, performed by Mason Ferguson.

‘Loch Katrin’s Lady’, performed by The Dorian Singers, with Mason Ferguson on guitar.

Please stand as the wedding party enter to ‘You’re Still the One’, performed by The Dorian Singers.

It’s all been planned to the tiniest micro-detail. What could possibly go wrong on this longed-for day?

Far off beyond the scope of this tale, Rachel Logan is heading home to hotel Mum and Dad. In her imagination, this had been a good plan. She’d drive off the ferry refreshed by her holiday in Brittany and a good sleep on the overnight ferry, with plenty of time to get to her parents to shower and change for the wedding. That’s optimism bias for you. Past experience gains no traction, because every single time you genuinely believe it will be different. Those files that tell her how little sleep you’ll get, how early they turf you out of your cabin, how the shortest queue at passport control always moves slowest? Pff! Won’t be needing them. Delete!

But she’s finally on her way now (drive on the left, drive on the left!) windows down because the air con packed in yesterday. Melody Gardot’s ‘One Day’ is playing. Rachel hums along and—oh hello, here we go again—a secret hope whispers that maybe she’ll meet someone at the reception. It could happen. Rachel sighs at herself. Well, thank God it’s not a family wedding, with drunk rellies saying You’re so pretty, how come nobody has snapped you up? Because, to paraphrase Jane Austen, there are certainly not so many men who aren’t dickheads as there are pretty women to deserve them. She’s 37 and waved off the most recent iteration of the ‘emotionally unavailable commitment phobic dickhead’ genre three years ago (which was two and a half years later than she ought to have done but never mind). Yet here she is, singing along, still half-thinking that someone at the wedding will see the stars within her eyes.

Goodbye, Portsmouth! She leans forward to unstick herself from her seat and puts her foot down. M27, A34, M40, M6. Should be there in about three hours. Plenty of time before the finale of the Gaydens soap opera. Wouldn’t miss it for the world.

Oh, Rachel. You will miss it, I’m afraid. The ceremony, definitely. You should make it to the second half of the reception. This journey will reduce you to tears of frustration, and the stars within your eyes will be a migraine aura. And yet, and yet…

Even now, as the hot wind from your open windows buffets your face and turns your hair into a clown’s wig, someone is propping a foot on a chair to lace a cream Oxford brogue. You will see these shoes later today, when the motorway has turned into a five mile car park. These very shoes will be protruding through the open rear window of a car as someone stretches out on the backseat to snooze. You will pass them on your way to the embankment in search of shade and you will clock the red soles. The shoes will be bouncing slightly in time to some music you won’t be able to hear and you will think, Ooh, Loubous! Get you!

‘Dandy, why is your heart sad?’

They have come out to look for Nellywinkle and Flanche who live, after the manner of fairies everywhere, at the bottom of the garden. Andrew can hear the hens brooding somewhere nearby. The geese are out, but not in the garden thank God.

‘Who said my heart is sad, sweetie?’ He feels his phone vibrate, but he ignores it like a model godfather.

‘Daddy said you needed some alone time because your heart is sad.’ Ladybird sneaks her hand into his and looks up anxiously. ‘Fio said I can ask you.’

‘Of course you can ask me.’ He smiles down at her. ‘Don’t worry. My heart isn’t sad anymore.’ His phone vibrates again. And again. Then three times in rapid succession. ‘Come on, show me where these fairies live.’ He continues along the path. Lavendar, rose, honeysuckle come in waves.

But Ladybird hasn’t quite drilled down to bedrock yet. ‘But why was your heart sad, Dandy? Is it because Mr Laird has died?’

Andrew stops as if his whole world has tilted. He feels the truth of it—he’s dead, the old bastard’s dead! —flare across his chest. He fills his lungs. Exhales. OK then. Well. That would account for the WhatsApp frenzy. He feels Ladybird tugging gently on his hand. Comes to. ‘No, no. It’s not that.’ He smiles down again into her anxious little face and summons his focus. ‘My heart was sad because I hurt my hand a long time ago, and now I can’t play the piano or the organ anymore. Look. Here’s the scar.’ He shows her.

Here eyes go round. ‘Did it bleed lots and lots?’

‘It did. But the doctors at the hospital sewed it up. Look. Can you see where the stitches were?’

‘Whaa-a-at?’ she shouts. ‘What the hecker-wecker?’ She twirls on the spot, then scampers off down the path in her bridesmaid dress and wellies. He waits till she’s absorbed in her game among the tall poppies, then he gets his phone out. How lovely. The entire choral world is intent on telling him the news. And predictably, here’s the first obituary request.

‘Dandy! Dandy! Quick! They’re here! Ssh!’

He puts his phone away. After all, what is the death of his oldest enemy compared with an opportunity to meet Nellywinkle and Flanche? They are, after all, ‘more powerful than God and Jesus’.

He approaches the poppy thicket. Ladybird is picking a posy by grabbing the flower heads and tugging them off. The stems bleed white juice. It’s getting on her hands. She wipes them on her bridesmaid’s dress, but he doesn’t see. (He will be in disgrace later). The fierce scent of the sap fills his nostrils, and he feels— What does he feel? Something rising in him like a hot air balloon. The burners roar in his head. He breathes in hard. Is it rage? Joy?

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This is the far point of my usual Monday morning walk up Porter Brook in Sheffield. I sit on bench and check what I’m feeling. Sometimes I cry. Joggers and dogwalkers pass. I pretend to study my phone to save kind people from having to ask me if I’m OK.

This Monday, though, I was thinking about the way novels can revive in your mind even after months of lay-off. I posted Chapter 3 of On That Day on Sunday night, some seven months after Chapter 2. And now my brain teams with ideas and wedding music (playlist on Spotify*).

Wednesday was our final Scriptorium of the year. This is Captain Cactus, the cognitive distancing tool. We tell him what our inner/outer critics say. (My colleague Kirsty Bunting: ‘Even the title makes me feel sick!’) The Captain repeats it back in a Gollum voice and we all weep with laughter.

This week was the Manchester Writing School Summer Festival. I ran a workshop in partnership with Special Collections, with a selection of seven fantastical objects, including witch bottles, a promise box and a chair grown out of willow. The chair found its way into the novel I’m not yet writing.

School’s out! Time to celebrate with excellent colleagues in Refuge (aka my waiting room). This has been my most demanding academic year since Covid, when I was academic director of the Writing School. Home by train in the golden hour, happy, with Manchester blazing against a backdrop of inky cloud.

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*Spotify playlist here. I’d love to hear your suggestions, those of you who know Lindchester and its people.

Chapter 3

The motorway remains almost empty. Three magpies still pick at the badger carcase on the slip road. Now and then a driver approaches the turnoff to Lindford and sees the flags on the bridge, uncanny in the blue hour. Two St George’s flags, and between them, a riposte. Someone has hung a vast Union Jack made up of all the rainbow colours of pride. The three flags lift on the breeze.

Here and there across the Diocese of Lindchester pre-packed bags stand in hallways. Is today the day? Or are these pangs just Braxton Hicks contractions? Cots have been erected, tiny clothes and nappies laid in. Buggies stand ready. Some are brand new state of the art three-wheelers, lightweight, compact, one-hand fold. Others have already seen sterling service, sourced via FaceBook marketplace or the charity superstore.

So much for these generic preparations for babes we will never meet. Let me to take you now to Lindford where our drone will hover above a house that is already familiar to us. Look down. Do you remember that huge copper beech and beside it the flat-roofed electrical substation where once upon a time a little girl hid when she ran away from home? The lawn may be parched, but the rows of vegetables and sunflowers are flourishing, legally watered with rain gathered from the roof and stored in big butts (which ecowarriors like, they cannot lie).

You will recognise it by now. This is where Martin and Becky Rogers live with their daughters. Those little girls are now 19 and 17, if you can believe it. Luna the golden doodle, (sister of bad Bear who is not going to be a ringbearer), is nearly ten years old and asleep in her crate in the kitchen. The girls sleep in their separate bedrooms, and Becky and Martin in theirs. Ah! That kintsugi-repaired marriage still holds; not perfect but veined with gold. Is it strong enough to contain a new life? For yes, yes, another tiny heart is beating under this roof. The spare room has enjoyed various iterations over the years, passing from study for Martin, through craft room for Becky, to rehearsal space for Jess when she was made Head Chorister. And now it’s a nursery.

Come, let us buzz nosily up against the window to peer in. In the gloom we can just make out a thrifted cot and a changing station, a re-upholstered nursing chair, and a bed where co-sleeping might happen in flagrant defiance of current healthcare advice, though mothers have been nursing in their sleep for millennia. The curtains are made of retro upcycled fabric from the 70s which I cannot find it in me to admire. Baby is due in six weeks. We may not meet baby in this narrative, but we will bless the bump from a distance later on.

Three streets away, in Luscombe Court Care Home, old hearts beat. Sometimes I marvel at the way those ancient tickers keep going, how those shells of chests still rise and fall, rise and fall. How much longer can there possibly be? In one room grown up children have gathered. They have been here all night. Surely this is the day. They wait at the bedside, intent, tender, holding the tiny claw of the hand that once carried them, as the breath comes, goes, pauses… comes, goes, pauses… In the long silence, the siblings exchange glances. Has she gone? Outside, as the sky lightens, a blackbird whistles. Then comes another rasping breath.

Where else shall I take you, dear reader? Is everyone we know drowned in sleep? Not quite. Let us fly our drone briskly over industrial estate and field (feel free to imagine the Ride of the Valkyries playing) to Lindchester Cathedral Close where one poor insomniac is already awake and praying in his chapel. It is the bishop. The cathedral clock chimes five. We have had occasion elsewhere to note how uneasy lies the head that wears the mitre. Poor old Steve. Back in July, he endured the maelstrom in a tea urn that is General Synod and had been anticipating the easier pace of August. But the longed-for freewheeling into annual leave was kiboshed by a Subject Access Request that landed last week. He and his senior staff have spent every waking hour locating and redacting emails.

How the wickedness of one wicked man ripples out through the years and round the globe, Steve thinks. The Chorister School case from the 70s had not, after all, gone away with the death of the perpetrator back in 2016. It was reactivated by the wider scandals that have rocked the church recently and the steps taken nine years ago by the diocese and the dean and chapter of the cathedral were—this much is now obvious—not adequate. So, let justice flow like rivers. Rivers that have been dammed up for decades by institutional cover-up or systemic inertia. But with the perpetrator dead, where can those thunderous torrents go? Steve knows he has to be the conduit. He will do his best, but he’s trapped in an endless game of catch-up, too busy redacting emails to lift his head and see the big picture of what meaningful institutional repentance and reform would look like or how to implement it. The learning curve is steep, and he’s always lagging behind.

Pale light shines through the window across the simple wooden altar, the white cloth, the candle, the cross. O, I have asked to be where no storms come! Even as he thinks this, Steve is smitten by self-accusation. To be centring his own suffering, not that of the survivors.

It’s no good. Right now, the chapel is not a haven. He needs to get out and walk.

A minute or two later our drone tracks him leaving the Close through the narrow gate and setting off down the steep riverbank, where the memory of Miss Blatherwick still walks among the trees, pointing out the flora to generations of choristers. You may, dear reader, have seen Steve mentioned in connection with the hilariously misnamed ‘Race for Canterbury’. Regardless of anything you might have read, Steve has not been positioning himself. Indeed, if you were to ask him, he would characterise his position as ‘crouched behind the parapet googling ships to Tarshish’. Oh Lord, he’s barely surviving as a diocesan bishop. His beloved long-serving dean Marion resigned a few months back, and Steve knows that her husband blames him for this. Deep down he fears that the diocesan strategy set in motion by his predecessor has, on his watch, become little more than an optimistic vision kept alight by the stuttering flame of his personal charisma. Maybe he should retire before the episcopal Cheshire Cat temptation becomes too strong—to hide in the House of Lords and leave the running of the diocese to his suffragan Matt.

Happily, in the short term Burgundy beckons. Tomorrow he and Sonya will be heading for the ferry. There’s just today to get through. He will be shouted at by some of his clergy for attending a same sex wedding, and by others for his hypocrisy in attending a same sex wedding, given his conservative stance on human sexuality. And he will need to speak courteously to Marion and Gene, even if they refuse to speak to him. But in two days’ time (let it be, dear Lord!) he will be in a deckchair in some vineyard sleeping off a wine tasting.

The cathedral clock chimes the quarter. He continues down the path, not really seeing the trees or hearing the rooks waking in the roost. But suddenly a large bird flies up from the undergrowth. He jumps—a buzzard? No, too silent—it’s an owl! Steve freezes, lit with delight. He stares up at the bird on the branch. The bird stares down at Steve. For a moment there is no time or place, just the gaze, the extraordinary wonder of wild communion with the Other.

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Lest you fear all the clergy of the diocese are sunk in safeguarding gloom, I will zip you back to Lindford reservoir and cheer you up with news of Fr Dominic. Dominic has not been without his troubles, mind you. He was a prayerful presence at the barricades when crowds chanting outside the hotel where some of his terrified congregation live in temporary accommodation. Yet he has a very strong impulse to defend his poor overlooked, underfunded town from middle class outrage over the festooning of lampposts with St George’s flags. Zero curiosity over Lindford’s motivation! Honestly, you would not believe the viciousness, the utter contempt ladled out by people who would be horrified to emit the merest whiff of racism or transphobia. But until being dialect-speaking and working class becomes a protected characteristic, the sneerers will sneer at Lindford with impunity. And mock people for ignorantly hanging Union Jacks the wrong way up. Dominic has been lambasted on Facebook for flying a St George’s flag from his church, but I think you’ll find that this is the Parish of St George’s, Lindford, so you can all—in Christian charity—do one.

These are not, however, the thoughts seething in Dominic’s brain as he parks his car nose to nose with Jane’s down by the reservoir. What he is thinking is this: Calloo callay! Today’s the day! He climbs out, blips the lock then stows phone and key in the cunning pockets of his running belt. Yes, dear reader, it’s true: after decades of closeted cross-training, Dominic is now an out and proud jogger. His bliss at being able to trundle round a 5k loop without stopping outstrips even The Joy of Shorts enjoyed by Jane.

Let me explain. Forty years of yoyo dieting, followed by 18 months of misery bingeing during his dear mum’s protracted departure, landed poor Dominic in the scary borderlands of diabetes. Couch to 5k saved him, along with renouncing the Satan Sugar and all its works. For two whole years he has stayed on the cake-less wagon. Strange to say, this brutal rule has proved more sustainable than his earlier regime (self-loathing and starvation). He pauses only to write CLEAN ME, YOU SLAG in the dust of Jane’s car before setting off. And she won’t be able to retaliate, tee hee! because he washed his own car (using a bucket of course) only last night.

Off he goes. Our drone keeps pace. Slowly does it. The big breakthrough was realising that the first half kilometre always feels like death, but that if he just keeps on going it gets better. Nobody had told him that! He’d concluded from earlier attempts that feeling like death meant he was a wheezy lard-arse incapable of running. As he rounds the first corner Dominic sees the footprints in the mud that Jane noticed. The sight does not plunge him down an apocalyptic sinkhole over climate collapse. Instead, he shoots up a concerned prayer that nobody drowns wild swimming in the heatwave. One does not simply switch off four decades of vicaring just because one is running.

Four decades! And now he’s closing in on his last year. Unlike Poundstretcher University, the Diocesan Board of Finance has not been blandishing Dominic with seductive enticements into early retirement. He will plod on for another 18 months until his clergy and state pensions kick in. And in the meantime, he will refine his plans for domestic bliss in a home of his very own for the first time. Goody-good!

He tootles slowly up the long hill, mentally blessing the sheep as he passes. A posse of cyclists powers by in a whirr, red lights blinking on rear wheel and helmet. He blesses them too. Go well! May no SMIDSY* take you out! Dominic puffs and blows but doesn’t stop. Lord, his face must be the colour of those foxgloves! (Chatterbox would correct him: actually, it’s rosebay willow herb.) He should have time to cool down before he needs to don his wedding finery. And if not, why, his face will be in the same colour palette as his candyfloss suit. Bless Neil and Ed. Oh, happy day, come at last, happy, happy day!

We will part company with him now, pausing only to note that his day will be fractionally less happy when he gets back to his nice clean car and finds that someone has used her new hot coral lipstick to write PONCE on his windscreen.

But what of the grooms, you may be wondering. Are they are awake and obsessively checking weather apps to find a forecast that doesn’t threaten thundery showers late afternoon? They are. Ed has taken his first meds of the day and is propped up in bed in a cocoon of premium Hungarian goose down pillows and 1200 thread count Egyptian cotton bedding (silky smooth for enhanced breathability). Dauphin the hairless cat snuggles beside him radiating warmth. Radio 3 plays softly. Neil is out walking Bear, having brought Ed breakfast. Ed checks the time on his phone. Good. That’s his thirty minutes up. He drags the tray closer and starts to eat. It’s the usual low-protein portion of overnight oats with walnuts and blueberries. By special dispensation from the Lord of Big Fat Gay Wedding Planning, these stern staples will be supplemented at 10am by a brunch of artisan cinnamon knots and eggs royale when they are joined by their best man.

Ed focuses and picks up the large-handled mug, half full of black coffee. Ah! Caffeine my old friend! Well, a dreamy slow start to the big day. As if all Ed’s days don’t start slowly now, stewarding his dopamine. Timing is all. His phone is set to vibrate every four hours. He can’t afford to miss a dose if he is to get through this long day. If he’s to say his brief vows without freezing. He puts the mug down and cups his hand on the cat’s sleeping head, feeling the elegant bones through suede-like skin. It will be fine. Neil has ordained that a silk hammock be slung in the privacy of the orchard, if downtime is needed between ceremony and evening festivities. Ed smiles. No detail has escaped the attention of the banquet-meister. He welcomes Neil’s control freakery these days. Relies on it for escape from the hamster ball of indecision he gets trapped in.

Radio 3 murmurs on the walnut and gold design-driven radio. A silence, and then a piano piece starts. Brahms. As chance would have it, the very intermezzo that undid Andrew last night when he and Ambrose brangled their way through playing a hand each, in the piano equivalent of a three-legged race. This, the cradle song of Brahms’ sorrows, now seems to gather up and gently rock the sorrow of Fr Ed. At once impossibly sad, impossibly tender, the melody finds its way through pain to what will be the irresistible resolution.

Like this day of days, which will supply the final soft chord to his active ministry. Once he’s married, he will never be granted permission to officiate in the Diocese of Lindchester. But it’s over really, anyway. Has been since his retirement on health grounds six months ago.

But ah, his poor heart.

Far off, beyond the remit of this tale, the white car stands quiet on a suburban drive in Hertfordshire. It has a valid MOT. The tyres look fine. Even the tyre that will blow in the fast lane just before the turn-off to Lindford at 11:48am today.

*SMIDSY = Sorry mate, I didn’t see you.

After nearly a year away from my novel-in-progress, I begin to sense the sap rising over in Lindchester again. Such a long break made me fear the book had died on me. I picked up the threads partway through Chapter 3 and the words flowed, dear reader. Watch this space.

Each time I go for a run I find myself enveloped by the scent of honeysuckle, especially if it’s raining. Here it is, scrambling up a venerable old cherry tree beside the lane where I often hear a whitethroat, or a curlew revving up before hurling its looping cry skyward.

A downpour as I was walking to the office one morning. I took shelter beneath the underpass, admiring Oxford Road reflected upside down in the wet pavement like Janet Frame’s Mirror City. By 5pm the sky was vivid blue. This is the way of life, till the work be done.

After a dearth, I seem suddenly to have two live ideas. The second novel features an academic specialising in Victorian and Edwardian children’s books. Who could resist a title like A Boy All Over? I’ll finish Lindchester Vol 6 first. The other book waits like a spider on her web.

Today was our biannual garden party complete with Splat the Rat and a Colliery Band. I was staffing the Wilfox book stall. Beside me the bishop of Doncaster and the chaplain’s wife were doing face painting. A lot of glitter was involved. Empty gazebos stand silent on the lawn now.

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The photo doesn’t do justice to this exhilarating performance in Sheffield by Cuban singer/composer/cellist Ana Carla Maza. After wandering lost around the campus, we eventually tracked down the Foundry venue. Brilliant music by a woman who was clearly not going to be told what she couldn’t do with a cello.

From there a few days later to another upmarket venue, La Mermad la Restront in Bristol, where I was chef. The place was styled by my granddaughters, who also formed the clientele. The bishop and I were babysitting for the weekend and subverting our son’s authority at every possible turn.

After a couple of days of saying yes to each daring request (popcorn for breakfast, staying up late for the final of Britain’s Got Talent, going to the arcade on the Sabbath) we retreated to the Bath Spa hotel to recover. An excellent stay. Apart from the 3am fire alarm.

I can never visit Bath without Edith Sitwell’s Façade reminding me that ‘Hell is just as properly proper as Greenwich, or as Bath, or Joppa.’ I notice that AI attributes this to Stevie Smith. Students, beware hallucination! AI confidently asserts that the Bishop of Sheffield ‘does not have a wife’.

Back home and out running on this grey-green June morning, my mind teeming with fiction. I’ve started including a short extra loop in order to edge my distance up to 6k, which takes me over this narrow bridge. The air was swooning with the scent of honeysuckle and elderflower today.

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This is the ceiling of the ballroom in the Buxton Crescent hotel in Derbyshire, where our faculty research group leaders were enjoying an Away Day. I was there representing the Centre for Fiction. It felt as though we ought to have been dancing a quadrille as an appropriate brainstorming methodology.

Friday was my father’s funeral. It was perfect May weather, blue sky, trees leaping greenly. I began the day by attending a breakfast party hosted by my five year old granddaughter. From now on, I’m going to style myself ‘Grama’ which I think we can all agree rhymes with drama.

Go forth upon thy journey from this world, O Christian soul. I say this, knowing he would look askance at words quoted from the last rites. He was more of a Bunyan man. Like Mr Valiant-for-Truth, he’s passed over. And all the trumpets sounded for him on the other side.

The following day, my old school pals came for a visit. This is me focused on the task of divvying up the fizz fairly. We reflected that fifty years ago all we talked about was boys. Now it’s bereavement, grand/children, FODMAP, retirement, and gardening. Not forgetting impersonations of old schoolteachers.

A Bank Holiday run before it got too hot. The reservoir was millpond flat. Everywhere now, paths and undergrowth are fuzzed over with willow down. When the sun shines through it lights up like heaven’s candy floss. I’m beginning to glimpse new vistas of happiness opening in front of me.

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In case you’re wondering whether I’ve been doing any fiction writing, here’s a short project I’ve been collaborating on with one of my granddaughters. She was the illustrator and writer. I was the scribe. However, my thoughts have also just begun drifting back to Vol 6 of the Lindchester books.

I am that sleepy butterfly. Grief is exhausting, as everyone warned me. Days go by in a blur of naps and noodling round charity shops and staring gormlessly at work emails. Meanwhile, May rushes by. I go walking among the last bluebells in the hidden pockets of the Rivelin Valley.

And then, somehow, my work brain stutters back on. I run round Damflask, my mind teeming with next year’s courses. Deep in Learning Outcomes, I clip my toe on a tree root and go headlong. But years of judo have taught me this: the art of falling. Up and on.

This was a glorious a cappella folk concert by the Apex Singers in Sheffield’s Unitarian Church. I was caught off guard when they sang ‘Wayfaring Stranger’. We played this song to my dad when he was drifting away from us. I’m just a-going over Jordan. I’m just a-going over home.

Meanwhile, I’m still travelling through this world of woe, cranking out the miles along little lanes, past cow parsley and lush nettles, under May’s astonishing canopy. The Victorians were obsessed with this colour, Scheele’s green. Then their paint and wallpaper began poisoning them with arsenic fumes. Cheery fact. You’re welcome.

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May Day and a walk on Baslow Edge. All the gritstone rocks and sandy paths were sparkling. Skylark and willow warbler song tumbled down. Fresh green bilberry shoots and the fiddle tops of new bracken unfurling. In the far distance, the huge fountain at Chatsworth a white smear of light.

Grief seems to be unfolding in a mix of ferocious boredom and a restless inability to stick at any task. A huge drama has ended. Now what? A walk helps. Maybe it’s the bilateral beat of feet on path and the cautious red sky hint of better days to come.

Easing back into work. I arrived in the office to find that my colleagues had earmarked a brilliant new seat by the window for me to cheer me up. My jewelled tiara (dating from the days when I was academic director of the Writing School) was waiting on my desk.

A view from the train floor on my way to a School of English ‘Away’ Day (as in, you’re away from your desk, stop moaning). A TransPennine Express train ‘Formed of Three Carriages’ not six. The very phrase is like a bell. I exchanged eye rolls with a small dog.

Another observation of grief: the lifelong challenge of trying not to be weird intensifies. Away day discussions found me lurching between volubility and blank dissociation with my Absinthe Drinker face on. Home in time to vote, crossing the pitch to the polling station as the first bats began to fly.

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Maundy Thursday. Lamentations during the stripping of the altars. Dark, with all the statues veiled. In the distance, a glow from the chapel of repose, gesturing towards resurrection. The three strips on the pew are the scars of peeled-off electrical tape: Don’t sit here. Social distancing during the covid pandemic.

Easter morning in Doncaster Minster, with incense hanging in the sunbeams as light angled in through the south windows. The quivering moment before the Easter egg hunt began. One year when the bishop was still a vicar, he hid all the eggs in one place. I forget what this illustrated.

From Doncaster to Eastbourne. End of an era run along the seafront. We were down south for the interment of my parents-in-law’s ashes in a quiet garden of remembrance. We also climbed up the Pilgrim path to visit Bishop Andrew’s grave at a hilltop church. Sweeping views and spring birdsong

I feel as though I’ve missed most of proud-pied April; absent from home and work and key research events as I sat with my sisters for a long vigil by my father’s bedside. Here’s more sunbeam glory, bonfire smoke drifting under a vast beech tree in the care home grounds.

And now, the end of another era. My father died in his sleep full of years in the early hours of Saturday morning. On Sunday I was finally home and going for a run past this apple tree, seeing how the very last fruit hangs on among this year’s blossom.

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Guildford Cathedral on Passion Sunday after evensong, where Bishop Andrew’s coffin was brought in to rest overnight under the angel blazing from the tower in the dark. The sheer impossibility of the death of someone so dear! It wrestles with the sheer impossibility of existence. Mysteries too great to comprehend.

I have a friend whose motto is ‘There is no situation in life that cannot be improved by a bottle of champagne’. I tested that when we got back to the hotel utterly exhausted on the evening of the funeral. The rising bubbles sounded like a tiny round of applause.

The following day I was back on campus for our 19^th Century Afterlives Symposium, a collaboration between the Centre for Fiction and the Long 19^th Century Network research groups, with three of our Creative Writing PhD students presenting. The tech worked, the catering arrived, and it was a brilliant afternoon.

A trudging run round Damflask into a strong headwind. I could hear the choppy waves breaking on the bank as I ran, and the branches mewing and squealing overhead. The blackthorn is out now, and there were shoals of celandines beside the path. Slowly, slowly the hawthorn hedges green over.

Palm Sunday. We began the service outside holding our palms and pew sheets. A coke can went clanking down the street in the wind, until someone stomped on it viciously. I deliberately didn’t catch the priest’s eye, as we would both have lost it. And so Holy Week 2026 begins.

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The first violets. A highly scented heritage variety, once very popular. There used to be an express train direct from Dawlish, bringing Devon violets to Covent Garden market. People would gather to smell the wafting perfume. These are an odd combination of childhood Parma violet sweets and Bar Keepers Friend.

Last week I leapt on a train without my iPad on a grandma mission. I was without reading material, so I took this as God’s way of telling me to buy Francis Spufford’s latest book in hardback when I changed trains in London. Exquisite prose to keep catastrophising at bay.

This was only a 48 hour passage through the valley of the shadow of death, while IV antibiotics worked their miracle on a very poorly baby. Like a train whistling through a tunnel, and then out into light and safety and weak gratitude for all who prayed and lit candles.

Back home in time for a civic dinner on Saturday, and a quiet Mothering Sunday. Refreshment Sunday, midway through Lent. What I call a Sound of Music moment. These are a few of my favourite things: smoked salmon, flowers, champagne. And the bliss of knowing my beloved ones are safe.

A view from the Manchester Writing School office across All Saints’ Park with students enjoying the sunshine. I’m writing this in our weekly writing drop-in, Scriptorium. One by one the writers arrived with a happy sigh, unclenching after the long winter. Or a respite from the rain, at any rate.

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I’ve skipped February, so here’s the month in five images. More rain, more sorrow—a friend diagnosed with pancreatic cancer, that swiftest angel with the fierce blessing of not dying unprepared. But here’s the wild cherry plum in blossom heralding the coming spring. Often mistaken for blackthorn which comes later.

Into gloom and grief comes a ray of joy—the safe arrival of another granddaughter. An excuse to buy a cute pink Miffy rabbit, drop everything, and get on a train for the earliest opportunity to hold her and marvel the way my mother did when she held my sons.

London in mid-February and a walk along the South Bank past the National Covid Memorial. Red hearts and grief as far as the eye can see. Six years ago, we were staring at footage of Italians in lockdown singing opera from their balconies. We still didn’t grasp what was coming.

A trip to Durham for a Lent gig in the cathedral. I stayed with good friends who were respecting my New Year’s resolution. When it comes to alcohol in 2026, I am only drinking champagne. No prosecco, cava or crémant. Cutting down on booze while leaving the option of celebration.

It’s March. The snowdrops are past their best, but the roads in South Yorkshire are lined with daffodils. The first blackbirds are singing again, and we have had one whole day of sunshine. Cloud and mist, otherwise, so I’ve brought spring into my kitchen. Daffodils smell of Easter to me.

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