It was a Saturday morning in May. In the middle of a conversation in rainy Trafalgar Square I raised my finger to try to politely indicate to the person I was talking to that I was going to join the Lord's Prayer that I just realised was starting through the loud speakers. My conversation partner paused for a moment, and I closed my eyes and joined in with the congregation in Westminster Abbey in an act of Christian prayer, "Our Father, who art in heaven..." It was the only time I felt some kind of connection to what was happening there at the coronation service a mile away, a nominally Christian service that I was protesting against, carrying a hand-written sign reading "Christians for a Republic." The whole thing was rather incongruent. I could half hear the music and cadences of an Anglican cathedral service, while in a crowd almost continuously chanting "Not my king! Not my king!" and (my personal favourite) "He's just a normal man! He...
Seeking paradise in Cardiff