Mark the calendar: I have been to Cambridge, having taken up a kind invitation from Piers Brendon, one of our reviewers, to have lunch with him at Churchill College. Apart from his company and conversation I wanted to hear more about the book he is writing about his friend Tom Sharpe, the great novelist and anti-apartheid satirist whose writing was the backdrop to my teenage years. I grew up with Wilt, and Blott, and Porterhouse Blue; if I’m honest, Sharpe probably influenced me more than Evelyn Waugh and PG Wodehouse – although perhaps not quite as much as Graham Greene.
When I told Dr Brendon that I was going to St John’s later to attend Choral Evensong, he reminded me of an ancient and pious Cambridge legend. When it was discovered that the chapel of Trinity College had been accidentally built on land belonging to its neighbours, the fellows of St John’s compelled the intruders to carve Domus mea domus orationis vocabitur in large letters over the east window, facing the street: “My house shall be called a house of prayer.” In the gospels that verse goes on to end, just before the Lord cleanses the Temple, vos autem fecistis illam speluncam latronum: “but you have made it a den of thieves”. Who says that the Latin Vulgate isn’t fodder for humour from time to time?
The choir at St John’s vies with its more famous rivals at King’s College, just down the road, for pre-eminence in the Cambridge choral scene, but I was there less for the mus- ic and more to see the daughter of friends be admitted as one of the first girl choristers in the college’s 500-year history. It was a thoroughly joyful occasion, and the singing was spectacular as well. The organ accompaniment was particularly fine, if a little extravagant in places, and the harmonies in the last hymn became more outrageous verse by verse. Afterwards the chaplain let on that the organ scholar had been given the night off, and replaced by the world-famous virtuoso Wayne Marshall, whose son was also being sworn-in.
It is always wonderful to see young people doing well. Back in Oxford two finalists popped in for a drink in the garden after the Aquinas paper, which seems all round to have been a reasonable one this year, with no unpleasant surprises. Another, who when he leaves university is going to test his vocation as an Oratorian, came for lunch on a non- exam day and seemed to be taking it all in his stride. Meanwhile at the more junior end there were two infant baptisms to celebrate: one in the Tridentine Rite administered by a priest with all the necessary dispensations, and one in an Anglican tradition which omitted nearly everything save the Trinitarian formula and flowing water, thus ensuring its validity nonetheless.
Although I’d never claim to be a theolog-ian, I suppose I had a solid enough grounding to know what constitutes a valid baptism. I had cause to be thankful for it in Durham Cathedral recently at the memorial service for Prof Ann Loades, who taught me systematics. A pioneer in feminist theology, Ann was immensely well-respected and was the first woman to be awarded a personal chair at Durham. She was a progressive but by no means an iconoclast and one of the chosen hymns was the ultra-Ultramontane FW Faber’s “There’s a wideness in God’s mercy”. At the reception afterwards at St Chad’s College there was a sea of familiar faces, all recognising each other instantly after (in some cases) a span of over 20 years.
I reflected on this with Fr Mark Woodruff, another contributor and fellow alumnus of St Chad’s at lunch at the Athanæum in London. He had asked me to attend one of the club’s Library Talks: a fascinating account of Benedictine books and bindings given by Dom Geoffrey Scott, of Douai Abbey but now also titular Abbot of Lindisfarne. The event was chaired by Dr Caroline Bowden, the expert on English nuns in exile during the penal era; further down the table were Prof Henry Mayr-Harting, the first Catholic canon of Christ Church, Oxford, when he was Regius Professor of Ecclesiastical History, who had brought as his guest Melanie McDonagh. It’s a small world.
It occurs to me, as I finish writing this column, that readers might think I’ve spent the last month doing nothing but eating and drinking and having a generally jolly time. In one way I suppose that may be true – but someone’s got to do it, haven’t they? In any case it was tempered by the usual duties that at other moments kept me firmly tied to my desk. That was all tickety-boo until an old friend found himself with a week of unspent annual leave, hot-footed it to Italy, and asked for daily tips on what to see and where to eat in Bologna, Florence and Rome. Envy is a deadly sin, and so oppressive. I was as gracious and helpful as I could manage, but to channel the wisdom of Kermit the Frog: “It’s not easy being green.”
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