Middle Class Problems: Being a Godparent is a huge honour - how could we say no?

Sitting on the hard church pew, my fists clenched and my face stuck fast in a rictus grin, it occurs to me that I may be experiencing a form of divine retribution. Twenty seconds after the fact, my young daughter's screams are still bouncing off the cold stone walls, an angry wail trapped forever in the House of God. The doors to the rear of the church clatter in the wake of my wife's whirlwind exit with the devil-child. And I have just dropped my godchild's christening candle on the floor.

The phone call had come, with due solemnity, two months earlier, and had been received (by me) with extravagance. "What? Godparents? Wow. What a huge… (a pause as if to still a quivering lip)… what a huge honour. Of course we will. Of course we will." No matter that I had let my Catholicism drift since the age of 15, or that my belief in any kind of god – somewhat desirable for the advertised post – was shaky, to say the least. This would be just another of those mild hypocrisies of the liberal classes. It was fine. No: it was great.

On the morning of the service, my wife, my prophetic wife, had not been so sure – about our imminent status or our trek halfway across the country. "But what a lovely thing to be asked to do," I said to her. "How could we say no? How well they must think of us to consider us as spiritual guardians, as soft-treading saints capable of steering their child away from… from the devil."

"Yeah," she said. "Just ask next time, OK? I'm not comfortable with it. And this hotel room is £120, for Christ's sake."