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share
our suffering we learn and we grow and we share our
connection with God.'
    'Everything's fine, really . . .'
    'Say Love!'
    'Love!'
    'Say Everlasting Love!'
    'Everlasting Love!'
    'Let me hear you say Ev Love!'
    'Ev Love!'
    The Confessor had raised his face to Heaven for these
ringing incantations but now his fierce glare returned
to Trafford.
    'Then why have you not done your duty by your
community and posted a birthing video?'
    There was simply no answer. The truth would have
resulted in a public denunciation at Confession, perhaps
even a whipping. Once more Trafford stared at the ground.
A new thought occurred to Bailey.
    'Is Chantorria ashamed of her cooch?' he asked suddenly.
    'No, Confessor! Certainly not! It was me who . . . forgot
to post the vid.'
    'Eve had a cooch! Mother Mary had a cooch! Diana
had a cooch! Cooches make kiddies. Chantorria
should be proud to be a strong woman with a kiddiemaking
cooch.'
    'She is! Of course she is, Father. Very proud. Proud to be
a woman.'
    'A strong woman! A woman of faith.'
    'Yes, of course. Faith is at the centre of our lives. Nothing
is more important to us than our one-on-one relationship
with the Love. We talk to him all the time.'
    'Then why has she not shown the cooch the Love gave
her to the world in its time of greatest creativity? Does
she not wish to be a role model? To empower others?
To help them to celebrate and to learn from her Lord-given
experience? Does she not think that she is beautiful
and that everybody should watch her, share with her?
Applaud her?'
    'Well, of course she does. Of course, she thinks all of
those things.'
    Confessor Bailey stood back and solemnly laid his hand
upon Trafford's brow. 'Then you will share the birthing
video forthwith?'
    'Yes . . . yes, I will, Father. Of course. I'm sorry,'
Trafford replied.
    'Good,' said the Confessor, smiling once more. 'You
send my big love big time to Chantorria and to little
Happymeal. Don't forget now.'

4
    Trafford bid Bailey an obsequious farewell, hugely relieved
to have got away without the prospect of official censure
from the pulpit, and turned once more to face the crowd
that was attempting to enter the tube station. A wall of
gleaming, sweating, half-naked and occasionally entirely
naked bottoms confronted him. Bottoms hanging over
shorts, bottoms clamped around thongs. All or a part of
every single buttock in the crowd was on display. Huge or
petite, saggy or pert. Hairy, waxed, deep cleavages, mottled
cheeks. Stretch marks, surgical scars, extravagant tattoos
and love bites. Proud bottoms. In-your-face bottoms.
Bottoms that were as good as anybody else's bottom.
    Trafford knew that never in his life would he get used to
the casual display of so much flesh. He did not want to see
these bottoms; he did not want his vision busied with the
endless quirks of other people's bodies. No matter how
hard he tried not to notice, small details kept forcing
themselves to the forefront of his consciousness and they
made him queasy. He wished that these people would
cover themselves up.
    It wasn't that he found nakedness objectionable in
itself. It was only that something in him felt that flesh
should be presented artfully, with mystery even, not forced
upon a person. It was the same with breast enlargements.
He knew the logic: if boobs were attractive, surely then the
larger the better. What was not to like? It was undeniable,
and yet somehow he suspected that sometimes less might
be more.
    He never said this to anyone, not even to Chantorria. He
knew only too well how threatened and uncomfortable
people would feel if he were to reveal to them that he had
a problem with looking at their naked buttock divisions.
They would denounce him on the web boards; they would
say that his failure to applaud the pride that they took in
their body images was sacrilegious. Had they not all been
made in God's image? Therefore anybody who had a
problem with a person's appearance must also have a
problem with God. They would