I wonder what happened in my local church, behind locked doors, for all these months

Football, pubs and churches are all now available to us again. While I love all three, they also, respectively, cause me stress, temptation and guilt. I did not go to mass at the weekend because, as with pubs, I thought it might be a bit of a melee. I imagined feisty parishioners clamouring at the door being spoken to severely by sunglassed, earpieced bouncers. No, I left it until Tuesday to allow calm to prevail. My church’s website advised me places were limited to 48. Pre-booking online was advised but the IT for that was still in development, so I decided to take my chances for the 11.30 kick-off.

I get my fruit and veg from a stall opposite the church. I always chat to the Brentford fan who works there – an enormous, and enormously nice man. Brentford were playing that evening – a match of great importance to supporters of my team, West Brom, who are rivals for promotion. My man was nowhere to be seen.

“He never works matchdays,” his mate said. “Too nervous.”

I laughed.

“I’m serious,” he said.

I told him to pass on a message that I was on my way to church to pray that Brentford lost.

There was no queue outside the church. A masked usher led me in, to the free-standing, no-touch hand-rub dispenser. Where once I would splash myself with holy water, I waved my hands in front of the machine, but gel came there none. Someone suggested I tried kneeling, but before I did so a splurge emerged. Rubbing my hands, partly in anticipation, I was led to my pew. It felt great to be back.