Wandsworth

God used to exist. He doesn’t any more, but back in the early 1970s he was a major presence in my life. The world at that time was run by President Nixon and his adviser Ted Heath, but their power was limited, and even they had to defer to God’s authority. That’s how it seemed to me. A howling spirit or a weeping martyr might burst forth, dripping blood or swathed in tongues of fire I was encouraged by the adults to converse with God and to ask for his guidance and I spoke to him often, in class when we prayed, at night in my bedroom, and at Mass

Dante’s Beach, Ravenna Was it chance or destiny, I wonder, that caused the eldest of our six children, Caterina, to pull over in the dead of night and park the car where she did? She was on her way back with a young man from a beach party down the coast and had stopped next to a derelict farmhouse so she could look for shooting stars in the endless night and make a wish. That is how she found the latest animals to join our household: a very strange silver-grey cat with long legs and blackish spots and a single kitten who looked exactly the same in miniature. This tiny

Over at the judging for Waggiest Tail, things were getting acrimonious. ‘That bloody woman,’ my new acquaintance muttered. We were sitting behind the rope barrier in the front row and had formed a bond over a serious injustice in Prettiest Bitch. ‘I’m pretty sure she threw this category three, four years back. I happen to know – for a fact – that she made her husband stay overnight in a Travelodge. Dog’s got awful separation anxiety. Husband comes to the park, sitting round the corner. Once the Waggiest Tail starts up, she texts him, and he appears in the dog’s eyeline. Dog starts wagging fit to bust. First prize. Disgrace.’

There was not a Spaniard in sight, I was pretty sure of that. But I was surrounded by the enemy, nevertheless. Naturally, the enemy included my Italian wife, Carla. We were at the open-air restaurant for the Euro 2024 final in one of the two village campsites not far from the nudist beach. If England beat Spain, I would have a plausible excuse to break out the booze after being on the wagon for far too many months and get patriotically sloshed. I knew that none of those gathered in front of the giant TV screen beneath the stars could be from Spain, because the Spanish do not come to

One of us must once have told a political pollster: ‘I really have no idea at all who I’m going to vote for.’ A moment of mild exasperation put us down as ‘Don’t knows’. Forever afterwards, the prospect of an election, whether for Wandsworth council, the Mayor of London or the Battersea parliamentary constituency, brings them out. The doorbell goes, and there is a bright-faced, footsore, ill-dressed but dedicated party activist, clutching a clipboard. Without exception, each is firmly convinced that he knows what you are going to complain about. ‘Why do runners need compulsory declarations that something is “fun”, and amplification, and techno?’ ‘Do you have any concerns about