Jesuit Church of the Immaculate Conception, Farm St. Happy 2011.

I have few things I would boast about but I would say I had a good sense of direction. That I know London very well. I always think the children take it for granted that I pretty much know where I am going. If you said - let's go to Isleworth or Bow, or Catford or Tottenham - I could think briefly, and set off and get there pretty directly with no trouble. Even elsewhere, I can check a map and hold a route in my head. Though once going to Wales, meeting friends for our Bardsey holiday - the rain like fat, wet carwash brushes obstructing vision, I took a turning too soon off the motorway, but realised pretty quickly and turned the car round. Though it was one of those things, the bank had stopped letting me have any money, I had spent my last 25 quid on petrol and was already looking obsessively at the petrol needle - thinking jeez - I am only just about going to make it -all the food stowed in bags, everything we needed planned and measured for a weeks trip on an island - and here I was on a wrong turning that even though I had turned around, seemed to be sending me miles out of my way. The boys, sensing all was not well, began panicking 'Mum! You are not going the right way. Mum! You are not going the right way.' The rain lashing down. It was the day I shouted 'SHUT UP!' Which they still thought was a swear word. Though hours later, ten miles from our destination, on winding welsh roads, the petrol on reserve but not empty, the eldest was sick out of the window and after I cleaned the poor boy up I shut my finger in the car door and shouted the F word. But only once. Almost too high and pained to be heard. Though I think that is the second time I have said it in this blog.

Anyhow, I think of all this today when I go up to Mayfair - I am thinking about direction, about choosing a route, the paths in my life. I am thinking about hurt and forgiveness and love and telling absolute truth. Of not caring anymore about protecting myself behind indifference or wit. The church I have seen on the a- z is a christian scientist reading room but is not open. I thought it would be the one I saw briefly from the bus on Park Lane, but it isn't, and I haven't brought the a- z with me, but I think if I set off and just wiggle round these streets I will find it. Oh, but this area is beautiful. It isn't just wealth ( though it is superhuman wealth) but elegance and grace. These are the houses that I read about being built, like palaces at the edge of fields, these make look Belgravia look like dull doll's houses. I have never ever been or seen this area before - I have been once to Claridges, a couple of times to Berkley Square, but not here, not these huge elegant residences, with secret walled gardens, - some are offices, but quite a few are just massive, huge, elegant homes. This is beyond rich but graceful, beautiful and historic. I think you would feel pleased to live in these houses but awed by the beauty and history. Though who knows. and today, the day after the day after boxing day, it is so quiet you could film a period drama without a permit, without being bothered. Eventually, I find the church I had seen. Next door to an incredible glass shop - life sized baby elephants in the window in beautiful milky glass - I love luxury, love beautiful things, though I can just admire them not have them, I can love a postcard or a beautiful stone as much - but this shop looks bonkers - and I have never ever heard of it. A tacky gift store for the super rich. And the church is not open. Remember those days, when I turned away from the slightest set back - terrified of entering a church:

St Matthews http://i-sit-in-churches-to-think-amen.blogspot.com/2010_04_01_archive.html /
Emmanuel centre http://i-sit-in-churches-to-think-amen.blogspot.com/2010/05/emmanuel-church-marsham-st.html

But here I am peering through a key hole, walking all around the building, finding a side entrance, also shut. Then it is slightly magical - like the bit in a film when soft music plays - for there is a public garden at the side of this church - walled in by railings, and at the end of this garden that I have never ever seen but was once the burial ground for St George's church Hanover Square, there is what looks like the windows of another church. Dreamily, I walk through, to an open door.

I suspect I can't explain how beautiful this church is. It is ( though I have only been to a couple and one of those having hurt my eye, so it would not stop weeping ) like a mini french cathedral but tucked away almost hidden in these wealthy streets, though once it was, at the edge of everything, squeezed in by the stables, on the site of the Hay Hill Farm that extended from the present Hill stree and out towards Berkeley Square.

Everything is beautiful, but very slightly smaller than normal. The shiny pews have the surprise of infant school hall chairs, a forgotten size that used to fit, leaving you feeling big and slightly clumsy in size. There are a couple of other people moving around inside the hush and peace of the space, but it feels like walking in on something holy, slightly mysterious and precious. At the altar, under glowing stained glass is a delicately carved altarpiece centred with a palm sized jesus on the cross. In the adjacent chapel a nativity is laid out in straw a picture frame balanced around the scene. Mary is dewy skinned and though I have to lean in, really peer I look into the little manger and there is a small, beautiful chubby baby smiling in delight.
The review of the building written by a reporter for the Morning Post 1849 when it was completed describes what I see perfectly, better than I could manage, for the language is so transparent and modern:
'The church is of the decorated English style of architecture and reminds one of some of the earlier English churches....You enter at the very end of the church, and at once appreciate the merit of the design. The whole building is taken in at a glance; nothing distracts the eye or breaks the effect. You have the organ loft immediately overhead on entering. In front blazes the high altar under the great arched window, which is a masterpiece of stained and figured glass...There is no rood-screen. Nothing separates the eyes of the people from the solemnities of the sanctuary which they desire to behold. Turning from the 'dim religious light' of the church and the shadowy recesses of the aisles, the eye seeks the roof which is painted in blue and gold, and has the effect as it were of stars. Tracing ones way back the glance rests absorbed on the beautiful, flamboyant window above the organ-loft. On the right and left of the high altar, and in either side is a chapel - the one of the Blessed Sacrament, the other of St Ignatius ( the founder of the Order)...The sanctuary itself is a marvel of decoration, both graphic and coloured. The altar and attached brass work is by Pugin.'

Built in 1844 as a Jesuit church after Catholic freedom was granted in 1829. Jesuits had come to London as early as 1580, initially in disguise, but later more openly, practising with relative freedom - though with the 1688 Revolution toleration ended and the custom of referring to Catholic Churches in London by their street names grew as public places of worship were not allowed for 'dissenters'.

Chapels like pockets, glass domed cupoles letting in dull light, a book of prayers to be offered - the last entry in neat biro says
'For the courage to respond appropriately to every situation' Aha! I think. I am looking for omens. There is also a box with slots for money, each designated for different things in engraved script - candles, guide books, poor. I put a pound for the guide book and a pound for the poor.

I had felt on this quiet, questioning day that I needed to find something. That I needed to find wonder. That I needed wonder confirmed. Surprisingly here in this 'dim religious light' it is just there. But no more than the crepuscular vibration of beautiful things and a feeling of peace and warmth.

I walk and walk and walk. The children went on boxing day to exexdh's brothers and there has been a row about how long they are going for, and I lost. I feel tricked and angry and lonely, and redundant without them at christmas time. Though christmas was brilliant. Exexdh, my mum and dad and the boys on christmas day - everyone behaving beautifully, the food delicious, everyone happy and grateful with their gifts. I went the night before this day again to Winter Wonderland with U,OL and his velvet drape ex housemate, and we sat in the Spiegel bar laughing, all pleased to see each other again.

Exexdh walking past glancing at the screen has grumbled that he doesn't like his moniker. That it lacks respect. I will try exh if it seems better, if it seems like enough time has past. U,OL has got a new title too. And hold onto your hats it seems, amazingly, rather fabulously just to be L. Wish us well. There is a long way to go. But no rush. A lot to cover, a lot of people to consider. Happy New Year. Happy 2011 to all.

I sit in churches to think. The Christmas Special.

But like a favourite tv programme at Christmas it can, despite all the right elements, ( drama, religion, snow, romance, royalty, christmas ) go wrong.

I had it all planned. I had exexdh organised to come on Sunday morning so that I could go to the service at a chapel in St James's Palace. There is no other way in as far as I can see. It is a royal chapel, within the security of the palace. Though they say the public are welcome for services. Afterwards I intended to rush to House of Fraser to buy PSM's son a birthday present ( why had I not done this before?) get the boys with their shoes on - SHOES! SHOES! SHOES! and then to The Nightmare before Christmas in 3D at the BFI for PSM's youngest son's birthday celebration.

But. My Indonesian friend phoned up early morning crying. She managed to gulp out - would I be in this morning? Could she come round? I said yes. And phoned exexdh to say I would stay put, wait for her to come, not go to a royal chapel. I have known for ages that something is wrong. I have nearly written about it. But it seems something bigger than I can manage or understand. Something sinister and scary. I take her son to school quite often, when her husband does not come back from his nightshifts in time ( for she works full time now ) and her son ( who I love - his beautiful curly eyelashes like disney ink drawings, and his cheeky manly chats with my eldest, (though he is the same age as the youngest) are hilarious. And like my older son he has great balance and bravery and the pair of them dare each other further on skateboards and bikes. Though the lollipop lady looks at me as if I am mad - three boisterous boys barely controlled. But my friend's son told me one morning putting on his shoes by our front door - that someone had broken into their 'house' and messed up their things but he wasn't allowed to tell anyone. That his Dad slept under the bed when they came. I felt like he thought I was the grown up and that I might be able to do something about it. I would like to think I was. But there wasn't anything I could think to do. If it was me I would ring the police. But it isn't my choice. I texted and texted my friend saying I hoped she was ok. But I kept it neutral. I didn't want to get her son into trouble. But something very serious is up. I think they are being threatened.
I didn't meet her Yemenese husband for a long time and then when I did I didn't think I liked him. I see her as a rare flower - intelligent, kind and funny and strong, open to all. Which is so rare. Though she has to do what her husband says and runs out to buy gym vitamin supplements when he wants. Though she said he was a kind man for an arab husband. I felt from the way she said it that she meant he didn't hit her. He is a short, boyish and handsome. But I also felt he disapproved of me and our friendship and he never looks me in the eye. But increasingly I have noticed his unfriendliness is anxiety and the other morning he shook my hand, which seemed a mark of acceptance, though he still averted his gaze.

On this Sunday when she phones crying, they are meant to fly to Yemen either that evening or the next day - (I can't quite remember) - though because they don't have a credit card I helped book the tickets - my friend brought the money round to give me while I tried to put it on my card. But I wasn't allowed to do it. The name on the card had to be the name on the tickets they said when we phoned them up. Though writing this I bet my name has been stored as someone who tried to buy tickets for another to Yemen.

I can't explain my sense of trust. But I trust her implicitly though not him. Not him at all. I think he has charm but is very insecure. It is a weak combination.

Anyhow. I waited for her but she didn't come. And when I texted her to say I would love to see her, to know she was ok, but I had to leave for a birthday party at 12.30 she texted back don't worry, have a lovely holiday. A day later she texted to say, that because of the snow they were still waiting for their flight, but they were at Stansted now not Heathrow. They would be boarding in 15 mins.

Insyaallah. She texted. 'God willing' in brackets.

The snow had come the day before, on the Saturday. Great big flakes, hundreds, thousands, a brief blizzard that blanketed the ground. Me and the boys came back from a school project morning, mouths open, tasting the snow - then made a snowman in our courtyard.
That night I met U,OL in a pub near the flat. I ran out, excited to see him. The snow had made our arrangements complicated. But for the first time he was there. Not the angry, anxious person tucked in a shell of himself. Just himself. His face smiling. We went on the 148 bus that said 'White City' which was where I lived when I knew him, a bus into a happier time. We went to Winter Wonderland in Hyde Park. Like a christmas mini break, it is an over the top, finely-detailed, fairy-tale fun fair, sinister and romantic at the same time. He said as we got off the bus it looked like Gorky Park from a distance. And I winced, unexpectedly, ludicrously jealous. After all, I had wanted to go to Gorky Park, had wanted to share his adventures. But I wasn't allowed to go. And here, across the snow, these beautiful lights twinkling in the park - were magical, but something I had missed out on.

But. We had a brilliant time. I don't know what it means. I have no idea. But to stand alongside someone you love that had vanished from you. And know without touching and in a very fundamental way that they love you too. Is so peaceful. Whatever that can or mainly cannot mean. I worry about writing this. But I feel it is true.

When we sat and had drinks in the Spiegel tent - a velvet draped structure with 1930's glass, slightly random event chairs, leather sofas and a couple of incongruous bean bags - a future x factor boot camp (but no further) contestant singing - 'don't stop believing' infront of a twinkly star background - it felt like a dream. A really happy dream. It doesn't sound it but it was beautiful. I noticed a good looking double-date of married partners on the opposite leather sofa observe our annimation - as if we were breaking the rules of our age group. Looking at the velvet drapes U,OL told me a story of his old house mate that I knew and really loved who had constructed as part of a perfomance that took place on a walk around the east end of London, a velvet draped theatre in the foyer of an office block, which was designed to be taken down in ten minutes. The plan was that the performance was seen, then the audience led again on the east end walk, and then ten minutes later pass by the modern foyer perhaps ( and all that effort for only a perhaps ) observing the illusion of a place so beautiful that no longer existed. But, and I can't remember or couldn't understand the reason, the organizers decided that it would take too long to walk the audience back again to see this sleight of hand, so the masterpiece of transformation and memory was not observed. Perhaps it doesn't matter. It was possible. It could happen.

Hurtling towards christmas, living on lists of stocking fillers still to buy, food to cook and cleaning to do I try again to go to a church. On a boris bike, attempting to order a turkey on Lupus Street ( butcher's closed, Maria's gone) - St Saviour's Pimlico's lights are on. But the door is shut. Then I plan to go up to the edge of Mayfair and buy my friend's girlfriend pickled walnuts at Fortnum and Mason's and visit a church I have glimpsed from a bus on Park Lane. But I run out of time and realise I won't see them until after christmas, so I'll go up afterwards.

Desperate, I think I will listen to the carol service on Radio 4 and approximate, fob you off with a service at home. But I miss it queueing in Sainsbury's - food lists and present lists nearly all neatly crossed out.

My Christmas Special, like many tv spectaculars has something missing, doesn't quite hit the mark but it is the central thing not there - like an xmas day Dr Who without Dr Who - I didn't reach a church.


However I still wish you a Merry Christmas. And Peace on Earth.

Amen