In the Metropolitan Cathedral of Christ the King the flock sat huddled around the altar excitedly whispering to each other.
I leant against a pillar in the shadows at the back surveying many lilac perms and sky blue wimples.
Women, en masse.
Awaiting the remains of St Therese, a huge event for the Catholic Church in the UK.
The anticipation and expectation was catching.
My eyes swam as a choir of claret clothed girls sang ‘Stella Maris’ so sweetly, welcoming in The Little Flower.
A priest in Prada specs paused just in front of me, stooping to his fuschia’d bishop he whispered:
“No, no I won’t open a confession now, I’ll never get out of there if I do.”
He winked and I pushed my way out through the affected and the afflicted buying bookmarks and mugs.