I seek out the solace of my favourite church, St James in Piccadilly – for “all faiths and none”. Gorecki hangs gently in the high air. Candles glimmer softly on the bereft, “our homeless guests”. They snooze in pews facing Piccadilly, their extremities poking out from sleeping bags, faceless beards and laceless boots. All men – most drunk or drugged or both.
I stare at a crucifix and essay Deep Thoughts and fail.
A young woman teacher comes in with an alligator line of 7th years. They’re here for some history, art and a bit of Blake. She ushers them hushed down aisles past Mary Magdalene, an annunciation and a rather grim Pieta – and our comatose, wheezing, horizontal congregation. A couple of girls stare, but do not giggle.
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