Big, square, regular exterior. Like a tabernacle. A tabernacle. What's a tabernacle? I imagine a cross between an altar and a mausoleum, grim and imposing, a stone cube, raised on a plinth, accessible by grey stone steps, dark with drizzle, streaked with pigeon-droppings, outlined against the dull sky. Immovable and stern. Like a rebuke, a stone rebuke, to the snarling London traffic.
Inside, it's suddenly evening, suddenly quiet. Almost subterranean. Little glowing lights, opulent gloom. Big smooth pillars. Grey daylight gleaming weakly in the windows, seemingly a long way off, as if the outside world has gone faint and distant. The way it does when you're lying in hospital, wondering if you'll ever get back there. Like my Dad last year, that evening on the ward, my last visit.
Teddy nudges me approvingly.
Now this is a proper church.
Do you like it?
I'm not sure. But I recognise it.