Some images linger in the mind, long after the moment has passed.
A pope walks slowly, stylishly onto a balcony in front of a rain-slicked St Peter’s Square, as darkness falls. And once more, I am transported!
A familiar shiver of recognition runs through me, at the still unbelievably potent pull of that old taboo.
Dressed head to toe in white, he is my Valentino, my Clooney, my Daniel O’Donnell.
We must both be strong your holiness, I will tell him, should we ever meet.
Because even now, were I to allow myself imagine genuflecting before him, instead of continuing to make chicken hotpot, this family would end up having beans on toast for tea.
Moist and steamy, Holy Father, like the humble sinner you would see kneeling before you…