I feel for my Jewish friends

‘So what you’re telling me,’ said the priest to the builder boyfriend, ‘is that you were brought up by Irish tinkers, moving from place to place, and have no idea whether or where you were baptised or confirmed?’

‘And you,’ he said, turning his gaze to me, ‘think your confirmation was done by the Pope at Coventry airport on his official visit to Britain in 1982, but it was a hot day and you fainted so you’re not sure if you got to the stage or were carried away?’

The BB and I shifted uncomfortably in our seats in the priest’s office. ‘Would you like us to just leave now?’ the builder b suggested, leaning forward and smiling his most charming embarrassed smile.

We were perched uncomfortably on two small chairs in front of the priest’s desk, surrounded by heaps of papers and books all over the floor. The priest, a huge man with a shock of white hair, sat behind the desk taking notes. ‘No, no,’ said the priest, ‘let me think about this. It’s perfectly possible I can marry you. We just need to establish that one of you is definitely a Catholic.’

‘I am honestly, Father,’ I said. ‘I remember my first holy communion. I’ve still got the dress. And I’ve got the programme of the Pope’s visit.’ ‘Yes, yes, I see,’ said the priest, scribbling notes. ‘If we can contact the diocese that would help…’ And he fell silent as he scribbled.

The BB then started telling a very long-winded anecdote, which is what he does when he’s nervous. It was about how he had gone to pick up my new washing machine earlier that day and four lads at the store couldn’t lift it into his truck because of health and safety, so he slung it in himself.