I’m trying to prepare for marriage the traditional way. I really am. But certain members of the clergy would rather I remain in ignorance or their worldly wisdom. Over the past few months, two local churches have been playing a game of catch—and I am the frisbee. There is an all out squabble over whose diocese we live in. And I should make it plain that they are not fighting for us. Not at all. Neither of them wants us.
It appears that we inhabit the Black Hole of Battersea, a 50 metre square patch where people like me roam, godlessly, without creed or Christmas carol. Unwittingly, we have been lost sheep. Next time my mother casts a withering eye in my direction and mutters ‘living in sin’, I’ll shout ‘It’s not our fault! Blame the postcode!’. I bounce from church to church, trying my persuasion, feeling more and more like a ping-pong ball.