So, I never got to see the pope’s funeral after all, only filtered through the filter of the television screen. No substitute for Rome though, The pope’s death brought back a lot of memories. Of my childhood in my primary school which was nothing short of idyllic. Getting a 150 RQ when I was ten.

‘They say she was something

In those formative years….’

Tori Amos

A nun driving us to France in a bright red mini-bus, walking upthe hill from the school tothe church, And then that secondary school which was nothing short of hell. And the first person I confided in about my eating issues – a priest, who was, believe it or not helpful.

And then there was the sexual abuse. Not from anyone to do with the church but from a young man on my street. I remember reading an account of the cananonisation of a young seven year old girl who fought off her attacker so valiantly he killed her. I didn’t do that. I did the usual. I co-operated. This made me sob uncontollably at my GP’s desk. Why didn’t I fight hader?

And the pope is STILL dead.

And I wonder if he noticed my absense in the crowd