When I was a boy we lived 2 doors down from St John’s Church, I spent my youth playing around it, on it and under it - always in its shadow. The bells would ring out at Easter and Christmas and the old vicar would shout at us for playing football against its wall. During the winter the huge stained glass window would look so beautiful when the city streets were dark with the ‘orange rust glow’ and the lights were on inside. But I only ever went in on rare occasions cos we were from the other team. So why, when I’m 45, its memory and towering presence suddenly hold any meaning for me I don’t know. Maybe because it’s from a lost time, maybe because I never really went in, maybe it’s just a fantasy of a lost home? Or maybe I’m still that little boy scrambling under the fence before I got caught.
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