She kindly - and surprisingly - came to open a new Prayer Chapel when I worked as a priest in an unglamorous corner of London's West End.

Like all good leaders, she offers sharp-eyed friendliness - but not friendship.

The two are different and necessarily so.

They do a brilliant job supporting parents and helping them access services that will enable the whole family to have a better quality of life. They offer support with things like parenting skills, healthy eating, welfare advice and education and work skills advice.

They also go with parents to meetings and children's clinics and help with charity applications for household goods.

And they do make a difference. Parents who engage and work with the family support staff often manage to turn their lives around. These are people who have grown up without positive guidence and they often blossom in the care of a person who helps them to learn basic life skill tasks such as managing bills or putting routines in place to help their children feel secure.

So what's the problem?

The problem is this: this service is voluntary. Parents can choose to use it or not use it. So where do the parents who find it difficult to engage with such help go? And who helps the little lives that are held in their hands? When parents refuse help, it's the child who suffers.

We have a gap: a gap between the refusal of help from the family support service and crisis intervention from the social services. And it's a gap which many of our families live in.

Let me explain by looking at two of our families, names changed of course.

Jane is a single mum with one child. Noone ever looked after Jane or helped her when she was growing up. Her partner is in prison and she has no other support from her family. She has low self-esteem, is always complaining of poor health, has no qualifications and little chance of getting off of benefits.

It's not surprising her parenting skills are poor. She loves her child but has no control over him. She complains about his behaviour but is unable to do anything about it.

Jane was offered family support. She was given a two day nursery place so she could engage with the services offered. Parenting classes were arranged and she says she wants help but she does not attend. She wanted to do some voluntary work in nursery; this was arranged but on the day she was due to help, there was a reason why she could not come. Literacy classes were also arranged at her request - but again she did not attend.

Jane just does not have the ability to engage. She is not a bad person, she wants to do the things she feels will help her to get on in life, but she is unable to sustain and see anything through. When young, Jane did not receive the type of parenting that would help her to become a good parent herself. It is so terribly sad but without help these patterns of behaviour that blight Jane's life will carry on for her child.

Jane - and her child - fall into the gap. She hasn't the skills to access the help offered but does not fall within Social Services remit for intervention. Her child is being fed and clothed and kept clean and he is not in physical danger.

Now meet Souila. She came to England as a refugee. We don't know her whole story, but she has mental health problems - and two small children. She calls other children unpleasant names if they come near her child - she called one such child, behaving quite harmlessly, a 'dog'. She also has some choice names for staff especially white staff.

Once when her child was helping at tidy up time - something all children do - she started ranting about white people treating her as a servant.

As I say, I do not know what her experiences have been, but I imagine that they have been quite unpleasant. Staff feel so uncomfortable with her that we make sure that we are not alone with her; when she is in the classroom we always make sure there is a witness. Family support staff also visit her in twos.

Souila is mentally unwell but she is not unintelligent. She is quite able to use family support to help her with certain things she needs for her home. She is unwilling, however, to see that her behaviour in front of her children has an effect on their emotional health.

But again, she stands outside the reach of care. Souila takes her children for their health check ups and looks after their physical needs and so she too does not show up on social services radar.

In our area the thresehold for social services intervention is so high that this gap is becoming a chasm.

Social Services, financially savaged by cuts, are so overwhelmed in preventing another Baby P scandal, that children like Jane's son and Souila's children fall in the gap. Their Emotional health is being damaged and in turn they will most likely grow up to damage or be victims of others, probably both. But unless a child is in imminent physical danger Social Sevices do not have the resources to become involved.

So the gap gets wider, many families families fall into it and all we at the children's centre can do is hope that the little time we spend with their children will help them to grow up to believe that some people are kind and will respond to their emotional needs.

We hope the care that we can give will make a difference.

Initially when I was rather pissed off with all the uninvited advice coming my way , a friend said (not verbatim but more or less) 'the advice you are given that is helpful, remember, however the advice that is not, say thank you and let it go out the other ear'. This was very helpful advice.

From my experience in the past few months, there are two types of advice.

Firstly, when it is advice about say how best to get your child to sleep through the night or how best to wash them, this is general advice that the person has learnt through their own experience. This advice is generally not given with any judgement or malice. It is given by those who have experienced the problem before and are trying to be helpful. These people I am able to tolerate and feel more warm towards.
What I watch out for however is how these people react when I do not do as they did. Sometimes they get rather angry and feel I 'should' be doing as they say. At this point, I stick to my guns and go on my instinct as opposed to letting them control me.

The second type of advice carries on down this negative path and comes from people who give stupid advice that makes you wonder, where did that come from? Or they are angry at what they see you doing and feel they have the right to say how it should be done.

Here are a couple of examples I have experienced. Firstly when my child was three weeks old, I was sitting in a cafe with my brother. A woman came by and smiling at my daughter asked how old she was. When I told her, she then said with another smile, 'oh make sure you don't forget these early weeks!'.
This advice was not invited, was not relevent to me and was not welcomed. It came not from a kind place but from a negative and judgemental one.
Similarly, when I was standing outside yesterday with my child to show them their first snow, a woman (often is women by the way) walked passed and said 'oh you won't want to fall with that precious cargo!'.
This advice was given by a woman who considered it wrong that I had taken my child out in the snow and felt I should be told. Despite the smile and jovial tone in which she told me though, she could not hide what she really felt and neither could I so I ignored her.

Funnily enough, as someone whose job it is to give advice in times of need and risk, my experiences are helping me to understand that advice is a fragile thing and should only be given when it is required in times of risk or invited. It also needs to be individually tuned so that the person receiving can understand it and it can be helpful. If it is not helpful, there really is no point in giving it.

It also is good if it is given without judgement, malice or with the aim of controlling someone. A more difficult one that as we are not always aware of what we are doing. We do however keep trying.

'The advice you are given that is helpful, remember, however the advice that is not, say thank you and let it go out the other ear'.

Armed with this advice when my day feels like a battle, I become more able to filter all that I absorb and let it pass through me.

Episode 5) Famous musician or unhappy young man?

Peter has had had a difficult life, but then who hasn't in here?

Peter suffered particularly in his early years, when the damage is done, as his mother also suffers from schizophrenia. They're often admitted to the hospital at the same time as he lives near her still and they frequently see each other.

When Peter is unwell he is very grandiose and believes he is a famous musician and has millions in the bank. He also claims to know famous people and describes a very exciting life outside of hospital.

But it seems that when he is more well, he is a very unhappy young man who didn't really have a chance when young and apart from a council flat, has nothing and no one to care for him.

He gets involved with drugs a lot in the community which doesn't help his state of mind. In hospital, however, he is generally pleasant and likes to be liked. It is his second home and one where he is cared for.

When told he may be in for a while longer, however, he can get very angry and abusive towards staff and he will often try to go AWOL if he sees an opportunity.

Although he gets on everybody's nerves, the staff all feel sorry for him and humour him as much as possible while also trying not to collude with his delusions.

Episode 4) Marjorie and the importance of being slim

Marjorie suffers from schizophrenia. She has spent time in both the hospital and the community where for long periods he has functioned relatively well.

She's very slim and looks a lot younger than her years. This is partly because she always dresses very smartly.

However though her clothes are smart they're not clean. Marjorie rarely washes her clothes or herself.

Her slim frame is unusual on the ward. The medication and lifestyle of the patients makes the waif-like look difficult.

She does smoke a lot and can generally be found sitting outside, cigarette in hand. She talks mostly to herself, responding to 'internal stimuli'.

She's a small lady, very feisty and getting her to do something she doesn't like - such as washing herself - is a battle.

But while she won't hear a word spoken against her personal hygiene, finding it insulting, she has no qualms about telling people, staff and patients if they are overweight:

'You need to go to the gym, you fat man,' she said to a nurse the other day.

There are four regular meal times in the day and tea, coffee and biscuits are available also.

Medication time is also four times a day. Some of the patients come immediately while others have to be repeatedly called.

It can often be a difficult time. There are often arguments when a patient sees different pills or doesn't like certain ones because of the effect they have. (Medication time always makes me think of the film 'One flew over the cuckoo's nest.' Remember Nurse Ratchett?)

Things can kick off. The staff are all trained in the arts of restraint - but its also good to have a few big male members of staff to hand.

Some patients are allowed to leave the ward. There are different levels of this privilege depending on how well they are and whether they can be trusted and the staff accompany them on these trips out.

For those who can't go out, the staff go to the shops for them to get things like cigarettes, drinks and chocolate. These are trips the staff tend to enjoy - a chance for some fresh air.

Once a patient asked a female member of staff to get him a Playboy magazine. She said that she wouldn't be able to buy that but could get him something like an FHM.

After thinking about it for a moment he said 'No, don't worry, I will just have a Radio Times'.

Episode 2) Clean living

Michael suffers from OCD and is constantly washing his hands, brushing his teeth, changing his clothes, washing them and cleaning his room.

He doesn't take part in any other activity on the ward as his cleaning commitments prevent this. It's a question of priorties. Keeping his room clean and himself scrubbed leaves no time for conversation with others.

His hands are red raw from cleaning and his face is very red also.

The only plus side for the staff is that his room is the nicest on the ward. Most of the other rooms stink but not Michael's.

But he doesn't like anyone else in his room and so sits alone for most of the time between cleans.

Michael ventures out into the dirty world of the ward only to ask for more toilet roll, towels or sheets.

These are no urban myths. Every story told is true but then you will know that even as you read them. I knew it because I was there in each story. Insanity is a continuum we all share and remains our normal state - though sanity does occasionally show itself.

And so we laugh and we cry as we read in recognition as much as anything else.

And sometimes, of course, it's not the insane who are the problem...

Episode 1) The doctor's unfortunate ward round.

The doctor makes weekly ward rounds in the psychiatric unit. It's probably true to say that he's not at the top of his game this afternoon. After all, these people are all quite mad so in a way, who cares?

He gets to Frank and glances quickly down at his notes.

'Hello, Frank,' he says.

Frank says hello in return.

'And I see that last time we met, Frank, you told me that you had a penis sticking out of your head.'

Frank does not react well to this observation. He starts to rant furiously and has to be calmed down by the staff. In the end, he's taken away.

'Ahh,' says the doctor, studying his papers more closely. 'I'm looking at a different person's notes.'

Episode 5

Inappropriate by the organ

Coffee and biscuits after the service takes almost as long as the service itself and for a few, it's a good deal more important.
'It's where I catch up with everyone!' says Milly. 'You can't talk so much during the service.'

This is true though Milly does her best. She probably talks through films and she certainly talks through the prayers, which drives some people crazy. Silence is a vulnerable child.

Everyone has their reasons and initially Milly came to church because it was a place where she could go to sleep in the warm, while her children were looked after by someone else. It was win-win-win, really.

But soon Milly started talking as well as sleeping and has been ever since. Indeed, I haven't seen her eyes closed since the bishop was last here, over-estimating our interest and under-estimating our intelligence.

'You'll never guess what!' I hear her saying excitedly.

But I hear no more, for she moves away and I'm busy behind the serving counter. Yes, the coffee rota has broken down again and so it's off with the robe and on with the urn. Coffee? Tea - normal or herbal? Squash?
'The squash was quite weak last Sunday,' says a posh little boy. 'Rather like water.'
'Ahh..'

That will have been the parsimonious Maureen on duty who believes more money should be sent to Africa and less money spent on squash. Her servings of Tescos Value orange can be seen only with the aid of a very strong microscope.

Churches aren't in competition, of course, because we all love one another, but obviously we are in competition and I have heard that one church nearby is offering fresh orange juice after the service, which is a bit of a body-blow. I mean, how can we compete with that? It's probably the Catholics; another subversive stunt like the Gunpowder plot.

And then Ronald is standing in front of me.
'All very modern, vicar!'
'What's modern, Ronald?'
Ronald is in his 70's, a former church warden and endlessly positive about all things modern. If a technological gadget exists in the world, he thinks we should have it in church.

'Got to be modern, vicar!' is his general solution to a problem, which explains his delight at the new Health and Safety notices that have appeared, unbidden, in the church kitchen.
'Where on earth have these come from?' I say, gazing at the notices in shock:

'DON'T PUT KNIVES IN SINK.'
'FAT FIRE? DON'T USE WATER!'
'DON'T TRY AND CATCH SHARP KNIVES - STAND BACK AND LET THEM FALL.'

'It's the way of things now, Vicar,' says Ronald. 'Everywhere has to be safe. It's the modern way.'
'Not good news for jugglers,' I say.
But Ronald's not on my wavelength.
'Jugglers here?' he asks. 'Good idea, vicar. We need to find new ways to make the show more entertaining.'

I look again at the signs and remember the famously ambiguous church kitchen instruction:

'WASH TEAPOTS AND THEN STAND UPSIDE DOWN IN THE SINK.'

The trouble with notices like these is where do you stop?

'DON'T SPREAD GERMS. PLEASE WASH YOUR HANDS BEFORE WASHING YOUR HANDS.'

Janet appears suddenly and demands a word in my ear. She's one of our present church wardens, middle-aged and methodical.
'It's Martin.'
'What about Martin?'
'He's making inappropriate comments.'
'What sort of comments?'
'He just commented on a lady's breasts.'
'OK.'
'No, it's not OK.'

Martin is a bearded man in his thirties who's in and out of psychiatric units. When keeping to his medication, he can function pretty well; but he struggles with boundaries and can get violent - him and the rest of the world.
'I just think you ought to go over,' says Janet.
'I'm serving the coffee at the moment.'
'Then I'll do the coffee.'
'Right.'

By the time I get to Martin, who's with a group by the organ, things are all fairly jovial. There's plenty of laughter and Milly is in the middle of it.
'What are you like?!' she's saying.

Apparently, it's her breasts which have received the compliment which is strange, because she has the face of an angel but the bust of a middle-distant runner.
'I said my breasts are my business, thank you very much!' she says recounting the event. 'What is he like!?'

What is Martin like? He's like someone who just says what he's thinking, without edit, malice or disguise which makes him offensive to some but something of a role model to the rest of us.

There's talk of it with the current success of 'The Artist' and 'War Horse'. There's a great dog called Uggie in the former and a horse called Joey in the latter. (Real name 'Finder')

9-year old Uggie is an established film star, mobbed at the Golden Globes this year and a seasoned veteran of films like 'Water for Elephants'.

If Finder won, however, it would be a full stage at the awards ceremony as at least 14 horses - and an animated version - played the role of Joey. (They painted the 'subs' with non-toxic paint to ensure likeness.)

So should animals receive Oscars?

My feeling is 'No', if only for their own sake. It's only the charmless human ego that is thrilled by defeating another, by coming out on top; it would be a shame to pass this disease onto our brothers and sisters in the animal kingdom.

The only advantage I see is the improvement to the acceptance speeches. Given the choice between an emoting celebrity - 'Oh my God, what a night!' - and a simple 'woof, woof', I know which I'd go for.

Men dressed as women

I'm sitting in St Pauls Cathedral at some important service or other. The importance of a service is gauged by how many men are dressed as women up at the front and there are loads of them.

These days, there are women dressed as women as well, of course, though somehow they end up looking like men. It's a perverse alchemy. But as a portly man mixes well-crafted anecdote and advice from the pulpit, my mind wanders back across eternity to when I was ordained in this very place. Ordination is the commissioning service for priests, when traditionally two things happen: the bishop lays hands on you and your backbone is removed. I could remember it like it was twenty six years ago, which it was.

Ordination services bring out the worst in the institutional church. I recall a lot of pomp and a lot of prancing around by clergy old enough to know better. Like Ascot, there's a gorgeous sea of large hats on display and that's just the bishops. There's also a great deal of ceremony, a host of proud mums and an equal number of weeping dads, wondering what happened to the future England striker they'd once held in their arms. What was he to say in the office on Monday morning?
'So what does your son do, Mike?'
'I'm sorry?'
'I said, what does your son do, Mike?'
'Well, he's a - he's a - I mean, the important thing is, he's happy.'
'Great, Mike, that's really great - but what does he do?'
'He's a - er - he's a cl - (choking cough) - man.'
'Sorry, Mike, I didn't catch that. He's a what?'
'He's a cl - (more coughing) - man.'
'Let me get you some water, Mike and then you can tell me all about what your son does for a living. Hey guys, I'm just getting Mike some water and then he's going to tell us all what his son does for a living. Gather round!'

The organ's playing, of course. It may have been Mozart's favourite instrument but it isn't mine. I loathe its dominating noise and here in St Pauls it dominates all over the place, killing the silent seeds. And then there's the very high ceiling which I remember the preacher gazing towards as I set out on my priestly career all those years ago. Perhaps he too was surprised at just how high it was. Or maybe he was seeking inspiration. If he was seeking inspiration, I can confirm that he never found it. He would have done better to join the congregation in checking his watch - or a calendar. He was a long way from being brief and to the point.

To be honest, instead of a service with such a vastly inflated ego, I'd have preferred a little chat with the bishop over a cup of tea and a slab of fruit cake. After which he could give me a hug and send me out into the world with the words:

'Simon, you old bugger - it's time to go. You're a follower of Jesus who was on the wrong side of the powerful but on the right side of life and love. So hang in there. Take people seriously but don't take the church seriously. Risk everything and fear nothing! And remember always - you are beloved of this earth.'

Once upon a long time ago, that may have been the commissioning service, verbatim, but no longer. Now the service is just one more example of the church's ability to make the simple complicated, the interesting, dull and the profound, religious.

'Give me your first blessing, Father, I need your first blessing!'

These are the first words you hear when the Ordination service is over. There are those who imagine special power in a priest's first blessing and gather round the freshly ordained like the pigeons in Leicester Square around the bread man, kneeling in cooing expectation.

The needy soul who approached me had touched down at least three yards too early and slid the rest of the way on his knees. With such confidence, you sensed he'd done this before.

I'm shocked from my reverie of remembrance by my phone going off. It's a book publisher and not wishing to miss the moment, I mutter - 'Hang on a sec' as I make my awkward way along the row towards the side aisle. I hope the message on my face is: 'I've just been informed of a terrible tragedy.'

In the shadows of the pillars, I can speak at last.
'This isn't a bad time, is it?' asks the publisher.
'No, not at all, not at all - it's very good time.'

For freelancers the world over, there's no bad time to be offered a job; though fair's fair - had I been listening to the Sermon on the Mount, I'd probably have said, 'I'll call you back.'

'Who's the man speaking?' asks the publisher.
'Oh, it's just some nonsense on the radio,' I say uncharitably as I nestle by a tomb in a quiet cathedral enclave and try to avoid the verger's disapproving gaze. 'Now, to business...'

I was sharing the afternoon carriage with a very merry bunch of school children, and after a while a teacher got a game of 'Eye Spy' going.

Eileen was eager to have a go.

'All right, Eileen, off you go.'

'I spy with my little eye something beginning with..(much thought)...'T'!

'Tube!' said one child.

'Train!' said another.

Eileen shook her head excitedly. This was her moment, and they we both wrong, which was brilliant!

'Toes!' said a boy.

It was true that he and his friend had been playing a game which involved them taking their shoes off.

'No!' said Eileen

One or two other suggestions came in but no one could get it right and the game was losing momentum. In the end the teacher asked Eileen to reveal all.

'Toothpaste!' she said.

'Toothpaste? Can you see any toothpaste, Eileen?'

'No - but we have some at home. I did see it'

'OK,' said the teacher moving swiftly on, 'does someone else want to have a go? Jacob? All right. And remember, Jacob, you have to be able to see it...It's 'I spy', not 'I Remember'...that would make it a bit difficult for everyone...'

Terry's All Lies

Being a vicar in the Church of England is not all tea and cucumber sandwiches on the bishop's lawn. Indeed, expectations today mean it's never been harder to wear the dog-collar. And one of the problems is this: people want you to be like them, to make them feel better about themselves; but also to be unlike them, so they have something to aim at.

Thus the priest must be a professional schizophrenic. He or she must be fashion-conscious, materialistic, TV-absorbed, follow football, spend hours on meaningless facebook relationships and chat rubbish; whilst also being a shaven-haired saint, head in the heavenly clouds and careless of all things worldly. Finding this split-personality too challenging, most clergy opt for one or the other. They're either 'Matey-matey-swear-like-a-trooper-next-door-neighbour.' or 'Rank religious nutcase'.

But whether you're Matey or Nutcase, sooner of later you'll face Terry. Terry may not always be his name; but he's the man who comes to your door with a story of woe, and you know from the outset where it's leading. In fact, that's where I'm standing right now, at the vicarage door and Terry's story is well underway.

'My mother's dying of cancer, you see Father.'
'I'm sorry.'
'My poor mum dying of cancer.'
'Must be a difficult time.'
'Means the world to me, she does.'
'I'm sure; a good mother is a great gift.'
'And only one leg.'
'You've only one leg? I'd never have known.'
'No, my mother only has one leg.'
'Oh I see.
'Never stopped her though; take more than that to stop my mum!'
'Wonderful.'
'Brought up seven of us on hope and a prayer - '
'- and one leg - '
' - and now she just wants one last look at her family photos.'
'I can understand that.'
'Who'd deny her one last look at her family photos?'
'Who indeed?'
'Only problem is, Father - my dear mum's in Brighton.'
'Why's that a problem - it's a lovely city. The Lanes, the sea front - '
'Oh, it's a lovely city all right. But the photos are in Inverness.'
'In Inverness? That's some distance.'
'Town of her birth.'
'Ah.'
'And she'll never see the dear old place again.'
'No.'
'And never see the photos again. It's a very tragic situation, Father.'

There's a pause, as we approach the end game.

'And so if your mum's in Brighton, Terry and the photos are in Inverness, why are you here in London?'
'Because I have faith, Father!' he says with new energy.
'You're an inspiration to us all.'
'The Lord's my shepherd; I shall not want!'
'Wonderful.'
'Oh, I've always had faith, Father; and in particular, faith in the kindness of the church folk of London.'
'Really?'
'I was told you were particularly kind.'
'Right. But I don't quite see what you're asking,' I lie.
'Just the return fare to Scotland,' he says, 'if you could see your way to that, Father, plane or train. And perhaps some money for food along the way. I expect you like a drink yourself, Father!'

I offer Terry tea and a sandwich. He storms off with the traditional curses and a veiled threat of violence. Call me Pastor Buck, but I never give money on the door; particularly if it involves mothers with cancer, disability, dying wishes and long train journeys. I've heard all the combinations and many would make great films - in the 'really unconvincing fantasy' genre.

I really don't like taking weddings and I'm hardly alone in that. Ask any priest whether they'd prefer a wedding or a funeral and they'll all say the latter. There are glorious exceptions of course but that's the rule: funerals trump weddings.

As one of my colleagues said to me, 'There's more life at a funeral - and they're more permanent.' He found weddings rather tense and tight affairs, built on the dubious foundations of control-freakery and unreality, redeemed only by alcohol.

And so it's bad news all round that a young couple have come to see me wishing to get married in my church. This in itself is a miracle, for my church building is no 'Vicar of Dibley' idyll in the countryside designed for Christmas cards. Instead it's a modern building in an unglamorous corner of London, cheaply erected and ugly as sin, variously described as 'The swimming pool' or a very large public toilet.

I discovered on arrival that it was designed by an architect who specialised in libraries, which made a lot of sense: inside, it does look like a library but with no shelves. It was an appalling job and he was sued soon after it was finished when the first fall of rain left the whole place flooded. Sadly he died before the full vengeance of the law - and the archdeacon - could be wreaked upon him. We must resist all talk of a God of love and hope that hell remains a real option for poor architects, who punish communities for years after they have gaily upped and left.

Meanwhile Peter and Louise sit before me with their whole life ahead of them. They are a genuinely nice couple - which is always unnerving - who shrug off my discreet attempts to steer them towards another church. After all, I have no desire to throw away a Saturday afternoon now the football season has started. It's just not right.

'We're not the most beautiful church, of course,' I suggest.
'We don't mind,' says Louise who is a school teacher. 'We've always regarded it as our church.'
'Even though you never come?'
It's a casual observation, made as I brush some imaginary dust from my lap.
'We'd like to come more but somehow we just never get round to it.'

God knows, it's a pathetic excuse but somehow Louise says it with such charm I nearly believe her. I persist with my polite awkwardness however.
'And you're sure you want to get married - it's a big commitment.'
'Oh yes, we've had a pretty rough time as you may know - I think we know our feelings are real.'

I'm aware of their rough times. Louise had been a teacher at the local secondary school where Peter had been a pupil. And if she wore skirts in school as short as the skirt she wore now, I could see how there might have been trouble.

And of course there was trouble. She was deemed to have had an inappropriate relationship with Peter and she lost her job. But they had now been together for three years and had a baby girl. It was a local scandal and Peter's family weren't over the moon but the two of them seemed very happy together. How could I possibly not marry them?

Of course, taking marriages was easier in the early days. Back then, as a new priest on the block, you just can't believe your luck that you're able to preside over such a happy and optimistic occasion, building up to that grand announcement: 'I therefore proclaim that you are husband and wife!' You then allow them a kiss - 'You may kiss the bride' - before holding their hands together high in the air and declaring: 'That which God has joined together, let not man divide.'

It was all such heady stuff that it would have been entirely appropriate for the scout master and his Gang Show to appear singing 'We're riding along on the crest of a wave.'

Fifteen years on, however, things have changed. Everyone you married is now divorced and living with a new partner. And in the dark hours before dawn, you start wondering whether God did join them together or whether they just bought into an impossible dream perpetuated by the church, florists and wedding dress manufacturers.

'We'd really like to get married here,' says Peter.

I'm surprised at these words because men don't usually speak during marriage enquiries. Relationships are for women just as fishing rods are for men.

'Then I would like to marry you here,' I say and I mean it which is remarkable. My hard heart is melted by their simple shining goodness. Sometimes even the most world-weary cynic is reduced to hope.

They are always open to the possibility of learning from their experiences.

They treat the familiar and the new with the same respect.

They know that you can never step into the same flowing water twice.

They notice subtle differences which they allow to shape their thinking.

They accept that their earlier theories may just be stepping stones to new knowledge.

They know a mind that is set and full of it's own importance can not learn.

They know it limits growth, it limits love, it limits life.

Let me be wise today.