Wetherby's headmistress informed me curtly that a visit to the school was not possible until she felt that either boy had a real chance of gaining a place. Given the length of the waiting list, this would be at their retirement. 

I remembered my compatriot Immanuel Kant and decided not to listen and not to follow, but to have the courage to apply my own reasonable judgment. It was then that a friend said: "Well, that church at the other side of the park, opposite Barkers, has a very good school attached to it. You'd have to attend, though." Faith had always supported and helped me. During my studies in Paris, I was surprised to see how open and casual people were about faith.
Believing was an acceptable and done thing, even among the young. When visiting cities abroad, I make a point of entering the churches. I sit silently in the benches for a moment, before lighting a candle to give thanks for a rich and fruitful life. The idea of a Christian education for the boys was close to my heart. Both were christened, knew the stories of the Bible and were to attend St Peter's Nursery on Portobello Road. They could choose not to believe later, but first they had to know what it was all about. At worst, a Christian education could help them appreciate three quarters of humanity's greatest works of art. 

I did my homework. The Anglican church and school on Kensington High Street were called St Mary Abbots. A child had to attend services and a crèche there regularly for at least two years, before it could be considered for registration at the school. I told my husband, who belongs firmly in the "big bang" camp as opposed to the "creationist" one, about the link between school and church. He said: "That's great. We'll attend, and you can have a lie-in." What was a young mother to say? It sounded fantastic. 

Things went well. The crèche, my husband told me, was a small group of mostly British children. Every Sunday, he now talked to more English people than he had done in our previous five years in London. Few foreigners in this international city have British friends. The crèche was run by fun and dedicated volunteers. The boys made arts and crafts, sang and played. Oh, and had I heard about the Friday morning playgroup? "Hm," I said. Weeks and months went by. My husband started to greet people in the street I did not know, among them an attractive blonde woman. "Who was that?" I asked. "Her name is Mariella Frostrup. She's a writer and TV presenter, just like you," he kindly said. Next was a couple out shopping with their three children on Portobello Market. Their eldest seemed to be severely handicapped. My husband greeted them and we walked on. "And who was that?" I wanted to know. "That was David Cameron," he answered. "Don't you know him? He's the leader of the Conservative Party." To his endless amusement, I am, despite a prestigious PPE education, unable to identify key politicians. "Why don't you come along to church next time?" he said.