Mouldy Miracle

In the local village there is a church, unused a lot of the time but famous during the festival for the red nose that it wears.

It is used for other things, funerals depressingly so and every now and again-(i-missed-it), a visiting priest visits and, er, priests.

On Saturday it was venue for the music school’s end of year recital, and this is an event NOT to be missed.

Highlights this year were the under-six La-La-Laaaaa accopeala, which sounded so out of tune it might have been contemporary, and five minutes during which we were invite to close our eyes and the students wandered amongst us twanging rubber bands stretched over cardboard, flicking the bottom of youghurt pots , blowing across open bottles and occasionally tripping over their own feet.

My daughter dueted on the piano with the teacher who played the flute – it was, and I say this as unbiasedly as a dad who got chocolate on father’s day can – brilliant.

But I want to tell you about the church, which is not only unused but also mouldy.

It’s the only church I’ve been in where the mould rivals the stained glass.

If the Pope saw this he would proclaim it a miracle.