THE QUACK

Whilst eating my lunch on the Weston Library’s steps, Anna – an Oxford University theology student – chanted the biblical Hebrew alphabet at me. It was impressive but a reminder of how far away my life is now from the one I had in Surfer’s Paradise.

Unlike Australia, religion is a hot topic here in Oxford. On a Friday night in The Turf, it’s not unusual for God to creep into conversations. And every day on my walk to Broad Street, I pass men in cassocks in St Giles – there is something quite sweet and Disney-worldly about it.

Religion is not completely out of my comfort zone; my mum came from a strict catholic family, and before marrying my dad, the priest made my dad promise to raise his children as Catholics. In exchange, he will allow my parents to get married in the nice Mayfair church.

And so I was called Mary, and I went to mass. My brothers and I were put into catholic school, and we went through the catholic stuff, including holy communion and confessing all our secrets to a middle-aged man. 

However, my enthusiasm for God started to fade as a teenager, and this became apparent in the lead-up to my Confirmation -a sacrament that is meant to ‘establish your faith’.

At fourteen, I wasn’t too keen on establishing my faith before my classmates. Besides, it took up my Tuesday lunch break, but it would break my grandmother’s heart if I didn’t do it. So there I was on my lunch break, filling in the blanks for The Apostle’s Creed, but really, I was getting my first lesson in the power of Catholic guilt.

The only perk of being confirmed was getting to choose a third name. You are meant to choose a saint who inspires you, but I went with Matilda because I liked the film.

Today in Oxford, the catholic background does come in handy with all these theologians in the pub, but I can’t claim I’m religious.

For me, catholicism is like a rich old friend that I ring up every few years if I need something. I pause before dialling because I know I’ll have to endure a long, guilt-giving speech about my life. I’ll roll my eyes throughout the call, and now and again say, “yeah” or “mmm” to make my presence known– and then find an appropriate space to sigh and say, “Well, this has been nice Catholicism, thanks for the reassurance about my grandad’s death, but I really must go now.”

With that being said, I’m not not catholic either, and that is because of one man – Saint Anthony.

This man’s sole job is to find stuff for you, and it strangely works.

You lose your phone, you say a prayer and promise to give money to charity and boom, the phone appears.

If catholicism had a Tripadvisor page, this man would be getting all the five-star reviews.

I do feel sorry for Ant, though – he took the job as the patron saint of recovering lost items in the 13th century, and at that time, people would probably only lose the odd stick or sheep – how was he supposed to predict the Industrial Revolution? I can imagine that the invention of car keys would have called for a pay rise.

The other day, I lost my password for my John Lewis account, and I wondered if ‘passwords’ fall under Saint Ant’s job requirements.

….I’ll have to ask Anna when we’re next in the pub.