Power and the glory, or the glory of power?
The apprentice priest asks me if I worship. Worship? Oh my God, writes Miriam O'Callaghan
The night is a bruise bulging over the city, making the palms of claustrophobes sweat.
We arrive from Stansted on the bus, travelling apparently via Aberdeen, such is the length of the journey. Actually, it's via the social slaughterhouse of Hemel Hempstead, High Wycombe, Luton Airport. OOO EEE OOO.
"OOO EEE OOO? What the…?" asks my companion.