Not long after chatting to my old boss Don Witts, he got back to me about the possibility of pursuing a Bishop's certificate with Southwark Diocese.

So began a period where I was ricocheting about, getting advice, pursuing leads and slowly, sometimes imperceptively feeling a way forward. It was a difficult time, with lots of dead ends and lots of ideas. It was knowing that the journey had begun but not knowing the shape or length of the journey to come.

She looked into the mirror, turning sideways, as is her routine.  "I think I am getting fat.  I'll wear the other one." Standing behind her, I looked into the mirror.  She was getting fat; without a medical reason, a sure sign of greed and sloth. We both will need to drink more water and go swimming, I thought.  We had no excuse.  The pool was less than 100 meters from our house. We reverse the process, and she is now putting on the uniform skirt/Chinese top combo. "How do I look in this?" As always on the third change, I am over-enthusiastic.  I tell her she is beautiful, and after throwing down the mobile and giving her my undivided attention, I tell her this is my favourite.

But the bagel experience is more than just a bagel. It's wrapped up in my DNA, however much I might want to overcome it or have attempted to deny it in the past. I am one-half a Londoner and an East Londoner at that. I need to live with it. With folklore about the docks, the dance halls, old China-town from before the Blitz, tailors, cigar rollers, Jews, prostitutes, the old maid's chemist, Ginger Marks flyover, Catholic processions, loan clubs, black shirts, gangsters and boxing.

I knew the importance that the effects of mobility would have on my life and understandably I was pretty nervous.  Gordon Bachelor, my instructor, coached me week after week and prepared me for this day.  The sun was shining, and the morning was hot.  I don't know how, but I passed, and with only one or two exceptions, it stands out as a good thing I have done.