After two years of sitting at home, I look forward to every religious ceremony that takes place now.

I haven’t worn a suit in a while. In some ways that’s a good thing – it means no funerals, but it also means no hooleys, shindigs or knees. Covid put a stop to our gallop and during that time I just assumed I could comfortably sit at home eating brownies, blondies and just about anything made with several pounds of butter, and that my body wouldn’t change that much. Last Saturday morning was a rude awakening as I struggled to find a suit in the wardrobe that still suited me, as my second son was on his first communion.

It might have been a while since I had to dress up, but this was not a situation where I could risk dressing up. You never want to be one of those devotees in chinos and polo shirts who don’t seem to understand that Jesus is really just a celestial Anna Wintour and that when he throws a party you have to put in the effort; no one wore chinos to the Last Supper, which was truly the Met Gala of its day.

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