Waiting in the ITN greenroom before a television appearance recently, I spotted a sign in the corridor for the multi-faith prayer room, and asked a runner if I could pay a visit. He looked at me blankly. He had no idea such a room existed, and had to go and find a colleague who did – a young man who led me straight there. Inside, the room was arranged almost entirely around a wudu station, the low basin at which Muslims wash their feet before prayer. On the shelf: Qurans and prayer mats. Nothing else.

The room always tells the truth, even when the sign on the door does not

The room always tells the truth, even when the sign on the door does not

“Do you use this room?” I asked him as we left. He did – that was how he knew the way. “Do you mind me asking what religion you are?” He was Muslim. “It’s not really a multi-faith room, is it?” I said. “No,” he smiled, “What religion are you?” “I’m a Jew.”

I should confess that visiting multi-faith prayer rooms has become a peculiar hobby of mine. I never used to think about them until my partner, an immigrant to Britain, led me into one out of curiosity. Like CCTV cameras, once you notice one, you see them everywhere: in airports, hospitals and shopping centres, at Kew Gardens, behind an unmarked door on Level 4 of Tate Modern. At the ARC conference this year – four thousand people, a Christian prayer breakfast, much talk of restoring the West’s foundations – and when I asked where the multi-faith prayer room was, nobody knew. I eventually found it at the back of the main audience area, with a screen above the door announcing it as a “Quiet Room”. Inside, a solitary prayer mat, a sign showing the direction of Mecca, and little else. In the V&A I asked where it was and was told to “go to the second floor, pass through Buddhism and go right,” but if I preferred they’d lend me a tug and I could use their meeting room.

Simon Woolley is not fit to lead a........

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