The bishop hit us in the face. That was the best thing about confirmation. When I was 12, along with every other boy in the school, I was formally prepared for the sacrament that marked our passage from infancy to adulthood. Confirmation lacks the festive atmosphere of a bar mitzvah where families enjoy booze, dancing and speeches along with the exchange of gifts. For us, it was a cheerless affair held in the vast, under-heated parish church where 200 fidgety 12-year-olds waited to receive the appropriate blessing from the bishop. He was called Cyril. We were familiar with his name from Sunday Mass when he was cited as an appropriate subject for our orations. ‘We remember our Bishop Cyril in our prayers,’ said the priest.

A cynic might have asked what Cyril got up to each week that merited an appeal to God on his behalf from the entire diocese. But I wasn’t a cynic. I was a fervent young believer and I was fascinated by the act of violence at the heart of the ceremony. ‘It’s symbolic,’ the priests told us. ‘It represents the knocks and setbacks that await you as adults.’ This was unsatisfactory. We demanded more details. Was it a slap with an open palm or a punch with a closed fist? Surely not a hook or an uppercut. Would Bishop Cyril disguise the blow and hit us when we were off-guard? Or........

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