Tuesday Sept 26th
Last night I cycled through Tooting, a very Islamic area of South London. It is Ramadan: large crowds of young men emerging from a mosque, special celebratory lights all along the street, sponsored by local tradesmen. (Would they do the same for, say, a Corpus Christi procession? Just possibly - if we could muster the numbers and enthusaism and courage to get a large enough event going). I would say the mood among followers of Islam in Britain is buoyant at present: numbers are rising, there is plenty of money, and it is a very youthful religion with a big attraction for young men. In Britain generally, media coverage in the mainstream non-Islamic media will probably shift over the next weeks and months from general dislike of Islamic response to the Papal spech in Regensburg to an assumption that the Pope was and remains at fault.

Dinner with friends who own a tiny, Georgian (possibly originally Tudor) cottage in a corner of Streatham Hill: it is a listed building and even has its own well, now filled in. It is squashed between vast tower blocks of flats, a garage and car-repair area, a rubish-dump and a busy main road. They are a delightful family: their younger son is just off to Rome to train as priest, and the mother of the family runs an excellent Natural Family Planning centre which is overwhelmed with clients and does a great deal of good work. The father of the family has an encyclopediac knowledge of English history: I found myself wishing I had consulted him before writing my feature on St Edward the Confessor for the Catholic Times. (In response to enquiries, incidentally: no the paper is not avilable on line: try googling the name in and see what you get - and maybe contact them?)

Somehow, the evening felt vaguely recusant: hidden, cosy, comfortable old house, warm welcome, sense of history and living traditon, excellent and lively conversation.....and the message on the streets outside as I cycled home so different.

Comment on modern Britain: as I cycled along, a young man spat juicily on to the street just in front of me, mising me by a split-second. "Ugh - don't do that. It's so gross" I said (am indebted to American tenagers for this useful and descriptive adjective) and then felt a bit panicky as I whizzed on, because it was just an instinctive coment, but it probably annoyed him and had I been on foot he might have pursued me and thumped me.