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everything.
    'Chantorria reminded me to but . . . well, I just haven't
got round to it.'
    The priest smiled but it was a hard, joyless smile. 'You
just haven't got round to it?'
    'No.'
    'You did not feel moved to share this beautiful and most
special Lord-given event, which is like no other and after
which you will never be the same, with your community?
With the world?'
    'I announced it,' Trafford protested weakly. 'I put it on
my blog.'
    Now Bailey was not even bothering to smile.
    'You announced it? You put the birth of a kiddie on your blog ? And that is all ?'
    'I wrote about it! I described how beautiful—'
    'You described it !' The priest was angry now. 'The Lord
has blessed us with digital recording equipment with
which we can capture, celebrate and worship in diamond
detail the exactitude of every nuance of his creation and yet
you, you in your vanity, think that your description , the
work of your lowly, humble, inadequate imagination , can
somehow do the job better! You believe your description,
your fiction , to be a better medium for representing God's
work than digitized reality!'
    Suddenly Trafford was scared. He had not expected
Confessor Bailey to put this spin on his excuse. Fiction was
not a word that was used lightly. Fiction was a sin, fiction
was sacrilege. Everybody knew that invention, the act of
creation, was the prerogative of the Love and only of the
Love. God created reality and man worshipped it, that was
the way of truth. Men created only lies.
    'No!' Trafford protested. 'Not fiction! Just . . . a
description, that's all. A description of reality . . . reality
in words.'
    'Why didn't you record it? Why didn't you broadcast real reality instead of your own paltry efforts to describe it?
When you shave in the morning do you use a mirror?'
    'Well, yes, of course I—'
    'Exactly, you do not rely on a description of your face. You
do not apply the razor to your flesh guided only by the
printed word! Because if you did you would soon cut
yourself to pieces.'
    'Well, no . . .'
    'So real reality is fine when it comes to your own
personal comfort but when it comes to celebrating the
divine gift of life, a description of reality will suffice. Is
that it?'
    'No!'
    ' Why did you not Tube a birthing video, Trafford?'
    Trafford knew the answer but he could never say it. He
could not possibly confess that his decision to delay
posting the birthing video on the net had been the result
of a strange force deep within him which desired a
moment of privacy . A longing to keep something to himself , even if only for a short while.
    He could not say that. Nothing was more offensive to
the Temple and to the community in general than
privacy. Why would anyone wish to hide any aspect of
themselves from the gaze of others? Was it not their duty
to celebrate themselves? Perhaps Trafford was ashamed
of something? Or perhaps he thought he was in some
way special? Better than his fellow men and women, too
good for them?
    'Privacy,' Bailey stated with quiet menace, 'is a blasphemy,
Trafford. Only perverts do things in private.'
    'I know that, Confessor.'
    'If you have nothing to be ashamed of, you have nothing
to hide.'
    'I just didn't think anybody would be interested,'
Trafford stammered. 'You know, there's so much going on
in our tenement besides us. Goodness knows, Galaxy
Starlight at Number 8a is having sex with her husband's
dad but her husband still loves her big time so now it's a
threesome and they're streaming it live 24/7. Why would
anybody want to look at—?'
    'Is something wrong?' the Confessor broke in, his
face suddenly a picture of desperate concern. 'Is the
kiddie deformed?'
    'No!'
    'Thank the Love.'
    'Thank the Love.'
    'Say hallelujah!'
    'Hallelujah!'
    'Was it a difficult birth?' the priest went on. 'Did
Chantorria tear?'
    'A little but . . .'
    'If so, all the more reason to share and to emote. Tragedy
and pain are lordly creations too, sent to test our strength
and try us. Be proud of your pain! When we