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To Portsmouth for the Methodist Conference, where the Archbishop of Canterbury is speaking at 5pm. The lateness of his hour means I have time to pop in on the way down to see my mother, Bridget, who has recently moved into 'assisted living' accommodation in Winchester. After her clergyman husband Peter died, she had been increasingly lonely. There was no-one to cook for and we were getting worried about her eating. This extraordinary place, like a luxury five-star hotel in both feel and expense, is called 'Sunrise'. Our mother, who still has most of her wits about her but had kept falling over, and not remembering she had fallen, is threatening to go out one night with a can of spray paint and rename it 'Sunset'. It is busy, busy, busy there with hairdressers, chiropodists, entertainers and goodness knows who else running around. I've not seen my mother so well or happy since Peter died and set off for Portsmouth in good spirit. In the square by the Guildhall where they are meeting, Methodist delegates sit working on their thousands of pages of papers in the sunshine while Wimbledon plays on the ginormous screen at one end. The conference could not be more civilised, with wireless, cups of tea and endlessly helpful press officers such as Anna Drew. The Archbishop gives a great speech that I write up with enthusiasm for the paper. I wonder why I don't spend my entire life covering Methodist conferences in Portsmouth and berate myself for having missed the last dozen. I don't get away until 10pm or so. In the maze of ugly newbuild shopping centre that has replaced the heart of Porstmouth,  I lose my car. I lose myself trying to find it in increasingly desperate streets around the centre. Shaven headed men approach, staring at my uncovered wrist where I've foolishly worn an expensive watch. My bag with my Mac and its power lead weigh heavily on my shoulder but still I run. And run and run. Finally, crying and desperate, I come across the car. I get home after midnight and in the morning my son berates me for not reading his bedtime story the night before. My story doesn't get in the paper. I fantasise about moving in with my mother or selling up and moving to a stress-free seaside town. But not Portsmouth.


More like this at flickr.com/ruthiegledhill
7 July 2010