Melanie McDonagh

Well, a star is born. I refer to the Rt Rev Michael Curry, bishop of that vanishingly rare breed, the American Episcopal Church, who stole the show at the royal wedding. Anyone who can make Elton John look like that  – sort of a nonplussed toad  – and generate barely suppressed mirth in the congregation to the extent it wasn’t clear whether the Prince of Wales was laughing or crying or trying not to do either, is quite some preacher. He may be Anglican but there was an awful lot of Pentecostalist in there. The other star turn was the young cellist, Sheku Kanneh-Mason, the Jacqueline du Pre of Britain’s Got Talent; again, big on feeling.

My late father was a pottery maker, and very good at it. Question is, if a Northern Protestant had come to his studio to request that he produce a teaset decorated with the legend: ‘Taigs Out of Ulster!’ or ‘Kick the Pope!’ perhaps with decoration to match, would my daddy have been obliged to oblige him on the basis that he was offering to make ceramics for all comers, regardless of their religious persuasion? Would the production of Protestant ceramics have been part of his offer to the teaset-buying community? Or could he have declined on the basis that this was offensive to his beliefs as a non-practising Roman Catholic?

So, Alfie Evans has died. His father, Tom Evans, said on his Facebook page that his little boy had ‘laid down his shield and taken up his wings’... and ‘we are absolutely heartbroken’. So, the judges have got their way; Alder Hey hospital has got its way; the child died on the terms of the authorities, not on those of his parents. Almost certainly, Alfie would have died whatever course had been taken this week. No one disputes the severity of his neurological condition. And indeed, in previous generations, children in Alfie’s conditions would have died long before this; his case is only possible because of medical advances. And obviously, withdrawing life support is not murder... using extraordinary means to sustain life goes beyond the duty of doctors.

So, Tom Evans, Alfie Evans’ father, seems to have conceded defeat after the Court of Appeal ruled that he could not take his child to Italy, where a hospital has agreed to do its best to treat him. He told reporters today: “We got rejected yesterday to go to Italy unfortunately. We could take it further but would it be the right thing to do? So what we do today is have a meeting with the doctors at Alder Hey and we now start asking to go home…it’s all about getting him home”. Will that do for those who know better than the parents what they should be doing to help their son? Yesterday, Lord Justice McFarlane, head of the Court of Appeal judges, said Alfie’s parents were trying to take “one last chance”.

There was a poignant bit of the Telegraph’s coverage of today’s happy event: “Everything we know so far after Duchess of Cambridge gives birth to boy”, it promised. Except that’s it. There is very little more to be said except perhaps the weight, 8lb 7oz – it’s at times like this we all revert to imperial measures – and the speed with which the Duchess left hospital, eight hours after the birth. That’s it. That’s all there is to say, except to remark that Kate’s going home dress with its lace collar was interestingly reminiscent of a dress that Princess Diana wore after one of her births, only hers is red, not blue. And the name. Rarely are so many words expended on an event that requires so few.

There’s a curiously two-faced aspect to the British take on the Commonwealth, wouldn’t you say? On the one hand, there’s justifiable contrition about the treatment of the elderly Windrush generation and a general feeling that the Commonwealth leaders assembled for this week’s summit might be justified in taking Britain to task for its cavalier approach to postwar Caribbean immigrants. On the other, when Commonwealth countries get uppity and show signs of not conforming to the social norms of this country, why, they get very short shrift indeed. There was an ugly little interview this morning on the Today programme which expressed precisely this ambivalence.

This week my daughter, 11, got the equivalent of a whopping scratch card win in the lottery of life; she got into the secondary school of her choice, an outcome partly determined by her being a Catholic, partly by dint of her entirely fortuitous proximity to the school in question. Some of her classmates are also going around punching the air, others, also baptised, aren’t, presumably on the basis that they didn’t live close enough. They’re a bit subdued right now, poor mites; at the age of eleven, they’ve got the sense that things haven’t really worked out for them, unless quite a few of the lucky ones turn down their place. Or in my case, fail to take it up because I’m a bit rubbish dealing with the cross-borough e-admissions site.

It would be interesting, wouldn’t it, to sit in on the meeting today between Oxfam executives and Penny Mordaunt, International Development Secretary, who has got off to a cracking start in her job by giving short shrift to the weaselly equivocations by Oxfam after the sex scandals involving its country director and other staff in Haiti and now Chad. But the intelligent money must be on a MeToo rush of individuals recalling what they’ve seen in other charities, in other countries, on exactly the same lines. My husband worked for a British charity in receipt of lots of US government money during and after the conflict in Kosovo.

In the old days, the Financial Times didn’t do scoops. Indeed, it was so unkeen on being sensationalist, if it did happen to get a story it passed it on to some other paper, and then followed it up. So what, you ask, has come over Lionel Barber, editor of the FT, sending girls out on an undercover gig to discover sexist behaviour at the Presidents Club? Is it some late-life crisis? I mean, of all the editors in the trade, he, and the editor of the Economist, and obv this magazine, have least to worry about circulation, in that theirs are the papers people want to be seen reading. Probably more people carry the Economist than read it; the FT is a kind of accessory in business, like a girl’s handbag. Anyway, it seems that readers agree. If you can afford £2.