I have to swear an affidavit for F’s and my divorce. I went to the university bank and asked if they had a JP. A shy young man with gold-rimmed spectacles dug out from his glassed cubicle a tiny, battered, green New Testament. There we stood at the open counter, in full view of customers and tellers. I wanted to say, ‘This is for a divorce. It’s rather personal. Can we do it in your cubicle?’ But I thought I should discipline myself to do things wherever I am presented with them. I kept my palm flat on the little green book and he asked me to swear. I swore, and read out the highlighted words: ‘So help me God.’ The solemn moment of the oath rushed past me, like the moment of communion at the altar rail. I didn’t prepare myself. Is that why it flowed past me without ceremony?