I am not an especially spiritual person. I like churches for their historical significance rather than their religious significance. But there was a bit of comfort in the service I attended today at St Pauls, and the Archbishop's sermon was quite onto it. I was a bit weirded out when I noticed that the roof was leaking onto my cleavage, but on closer inspection I realised I was crying. Haven't really cried properly yet. Distracted myself by counting the number of times the 3aw reporter near the front pulpit (Gen Y, heavy handed on the bronzer, brown mary janes) yawned.

Am heading back on Tuesday as Jack's service is likely to be Wednesday. Really, really not relishing going back. But it has been pointed out that I could well have the inbound plane to myself.