On the Street WhereYou Live

I love nothing so much, on a gloomy Monday morning, as to take a prayer-walk around the streets of Husborne Crawley, Aspley Guise or similarly unsaved local settlements. Brothers and sisters, who can dream of the sins going on in just a few villages in Bedfordshire and Buckinghamshire? Today, for example, I prayed my way round the streets of an estate in Milton Keynes. I will not tell you which - there is One who knows, and "what is whispered in the closet shall be shouted from the rooftops."

I considered first of all those people who were driving to work. Who knows what abominations they were dreaming up in their hearts - what adulteries, what enormities? I spent a while imagining the sorts of things they might have been considering, and praying against them. Then I returned home for a swift cold shower before continuing.

I went into the newspaper shop. What flirtatious chemistry did the assistant employ on the dumb, unsuspecting men she was serving? When I bought a copy of the Daily Telegraph (owned by Catholics, I concede, but consider the ghastliness of the alternatives such as the Guardian or the Independent), she put my change in my hand, rather than putting the money demurely on the counter for me to retrieve myself.

Then there was the house where the blinds were clearly down at 9am. What was going on? Was it an illicit early-morning assignation - possibly of a single-sex nature? Were they watching recorded episodes of "Family Guy"? Was somebody - even by 9am - still so in thrall to a hangover after a late-night pub quiz that they were still scared of daylight? Were the people of that house engaged in benefits-scrounging? Or was it two "innocent" pensioners, ensuring they keep their new "pot plant" hidden?

So distraught was I by the obviously rampant sin taking place in this house that I stood outside, praying for the redemption - or suitable eternal punishment - of the inhabitants. Until the Thames Valley Police asked me to move on or accompany them. And, as I explained, I am a very poor accompanist - I can pump a mean harmonium, or manage a bit of fiddling. That, replied one of the constables, was just the kind of thing they were worried about. So I moved on, rejoicing that this is how they treated the prophets before me.

Milton Keynes always leaves me low in spirits. I put this down to it being a City on a Plain. That is why I always leave Marjory at home when I go there. I would not like her to be tempted to look back at John Lewis.