The young man waiting at the door for guests to arrive ushered us into the village hall. Our elderly priest was rather alarmed by the Bollywood music blasting from the speakers; he wanted to sit by the door, looking for a quick getaway. Half an hour at the most, he said.
This was a new order of Catholicism in our rural Shropshire parish: big screens dominated with images of a paten and chalice, a pulsating Sacred Heart, and the First Communion candidate in her bridal outfit—an incongruous sight to us against the music. We were quickly plied with wine. The men were asked if they would like beer. Spirits? Nothing seemed too much trouble.
