We crossed Kensington Gardens on a clear Sunday morning. The air was crisp and the vast green lawns were empty. The waters of the round pond lay still. The powerful sound of the church bells came rolling towards us. We slipped in through a side gate. I settled next to my husband. Both boys were dressed in their Sunday best, which for me means lederhosen. 

The Vicar, Gillean Craig, entered wearing the splendid gowns of the High Church of England and looking like an older and kinder John Malkovich. I was smitten. He was followed first by the choir and then by all the children. My boys settled on the stairs of the High Altar and then followed the playgroup leaders out of church. At coffee, talking to other parents came easily. At St Mary Abbots, you find all sorts: an Iranian heart surgeon, whose father was an eminent Persian poet; an English lawyer-turned-sculptor and mother of three, who shared her weekend cottage with a gay couple. I also saw the Camerons again. Samantha Cameron looks much better in the flesh than in photos, a real English beauty with a wicked sense of humour. Her husband would hold Ivan, their handicapped son, for two hours on his lap, talking to him and caressing him while checking his BlackBerry. His table won quiz night hands down and when he came to a "meet-the-parents night" he patiently listened over salad and lasagne to an old lady's vision of healthcare. 

I started to muck in. I attended playgroup on Friday mornings in Vicarage Gate. Mothers of all backgrounds and all nationalities brought tea and coffee for themselves and healthy snacks for the kids. Father Gillean would pop in and know us and our children by our names. I ran the Sunday crèche, which grew rapidly. The media had heard of the Camerons' attendance and people flocked to the church to be close to impending greatness. Still, it was fun to involve the children and to make Christianity come to life for them. 

It was then that the same friend who had initially recommended St Mary Abbots said to me: "It must be such a pain to suck up to the vicar every Sunday." I just looked at her. She had got the wrong end of the stick. St Mary Abbots, its vicar and its congregation had performed a miracle. As a foreigner in London, I now felt that I belonged. We had become part of something bigger than just everyday life. 

However, reality bit otherwise. Our mews was no longer a safe haven. Neighbouring Queensway brought rats in the night and discarded syringes in the morning. Pickpockets left the plundered wallets of tourists in our bushes. Every night, a drifter came into the mews. He yelled in Italian and was obsessed with cleanliness — he'd wash himself in the mews using a standpipe — and with lighting and extinguishing matches. One of our neighbours suffered a nervous breakdown and started relieving herself in full view of my fascinated boys.