I am not a church-goer. Frankly, I’m just too lazy too bother. The kids have drama on a Sunday morning, and Saturday nights, well they are Saturday nights and I never liked the Saturday night mass thing at all. I got out of the regular church-going habit in my teens. Saturday night was sacrosanct. There was my weekly escape to a youth club, followed by hanging around a snooker table as the lads wooed us with their skills and, as I got older, that turned into the pub followed by the nightclub and a very sore head on Sunday morning. Gradually, my Dad gave up trying to raise me from my drunken slumber and went to mass on his own with my grandmother.

It’s not that I don’t like mass. Actually I do. I really do. I like the occasion of a community coming together once a week quietly and respectfully. I like the safe haven that is a church. I like having time to reflect, think, fantasize, remember. I like the idea of a person who was as loving, caring, considerate and, above all, non-judgmental as Jesus was alleged to have been. I say alleged because I’m not sure that he wasn’t just a figment of someone’s imagination. Over my lifetime, I have regularly fantasized about such a man. I’m sure we all have. Although, I have no doubt that had I ever met someone like that, I would have been the Mary Magdalene figure, adoring him, following his teachings to try and impress him, but tortured because I couldn’t get him to nip into the nearest cave with me for a snog. We’ve all been there. I became a vegetarian for one boyfriend in college and even turned into an anarchist for a while which included walking in the depths of night from the centre of the city to one of the suburbs to find a suitable wall to spray-paint. I’m not sure Jesus would have approved. But what we do know about Jesus is that he always welcomes back those who have sinned into his flock. Mind you, I’d say I’ve tried even HIS patience at this stage.

Anyway, the historians have proof that a man named Jesus did exist so he must have. Back then, someone decided that mankind needed guidance and Jesus certainly slotted right in, he who was so beyond goodness and so exceptional that people would follow him and people would want to emulate him and so the world would become a better place with everyone hanging on his every word “love they neighbour as thy self….do unto others as you would have them do unto you” etc.

It wasn’t really anything new. The Greeks and Romans had had their deities long before Christ arrived on the scene, the Muslims had Allah, the Tibetians had and still have the Dalai Lama. Mankind has always needed someone to look up to, someone to show the way forward. Jesus, or perhaps not he so much as his disciples, certainly knew how to work the market. I’m sure the PR gurus of today have studied the New Testament in detail. It should be compulsory reading in every PR course the world over. Maybe it is.

What sends chills down my spine however is the fact that people need to believe that their God is the only God, that their faith is the all-encompassing, be-all-and-end-all faith, that their God worked more miracles than their neighbour’s God. Why the competitiveness? Why the scepticism of someone else’s God? Why as children do we view children of other religions as peculiar, as different, as weird? We’re taught it. But each to his own, I say. Whatever works for you.

We are all right in our own way. There is no one infallible person. If you need to follow someone, someone to guide you in the right direction, well they are all as good as each other. You won’t really go far wrong with any of them.

But you know, really there is no ultimate being that will see us right. We are it or rather it’s in us. It’s our conscience. But whoever came up with the idea that we needed some examples to direct our consciences, well, she was on the money.

What makes it slightly sinister for me is when I hear people perpetuating the miracle stuff. Come on! They are stories. They are enhancements. They are designed to copperfasten an idea. They didn’t REALLY happen. It’s authorial licence. Metaphors. Does anyone really believe that Eve actually tempted Adam with an apple? Symbolism. And yet, extraordinarily, people do believe it. They actually think that Jesus turned water into wine. He didn’t. He was the Derren Brown of his day. He entranced people so much and they were so captivated by him and felt so good in his presence that they would have believed they were drinking neat vodka if presented with a cup of salt water from the Red Sea. Do statues move? No, of course they don’t. People who are in a heightened state of euphoria will believe anything they want to believe.

The Jesus story is a cracking one. There’s nothing at all wrong with it. It does what it’s supposed to do. We would all be much better people if we followed his example.

And there’s nothing wrong with coming together once a week in praise of someone who was only trying to set us on the right path, be it in a church or mosque or in a clearing in a forest.

The theory is admirable even if it’s a tough one to live up to. But then, as they say, nothing worthwhile is easy.

Today is Good Friday in my religion, the day that Jesus was crucified. And I think it’s worth remembering Him.

What is this obsession that us womenfolk have with shoes and handbags? How often do you hear some otherwise stable, normal woman feigning embarrassment as she confesses to another female that she has hundreds of each. Sex and the City has us all making a mockery of ourselves. We like to see ourselves as Carrie, who spends the equivalent of a reasonable mortgage on her Manolo’s and Samantha, who risks her career for a Birkin. We boast about how broke we are because of our obsessive behaviour. How weird are we?

And, like, these names are second-nature to us these days. We’re somebody because we can tell a Turkish rip-off Gucci clutch from the real deal without even having to sniff it.

I was one of them. I remember striding purposefully towards the Prada section in our high-class department store exactly 15 years ago and buying my first Miu Miu bag and shoes to wear to a fashion show that night. I also bought a silk, short, black Jil Sander skirt, reduced to £110 (I can’t remember from what!). I felt I had arrived. I was a woman of the world. I looked sassy, confident and cool. That’s what spending over £500 in an hour did for me back then.

But you know, it has stuck me more recently as I’ve matured and, more often than not, stuff a few notes, tissues and my phone into my jacket pocket rather than choosing a bag from my excessive collection, that I never actually crave other people’s bags or shoes or even clothes. I never follow women in the street to try and work out what that tiny scarlet creation they are hugging under their arm is and where I might get one. I’m never tempted to holler after someone “stop, they’re magnificent wedges….House of Fraser, Harvey Nicks or Ferragamo on Via Dei Condotti?’

So, if we don’t buy expensive shoes and bags to be the envy of others or for others to admire, why do we risk bankruptcy for such frivolous accessories? Confidence? Yes. We feel sexy and if we feel sexy, then surely others will see us as sexy too? Perhaps. But, you know, I think we try too hard.

I got out of my car recently in a supermarket carpark and started walking towards the entrance and couldn’t help but notice one particular woman in front of me, pushing her trolley. It’s one of the few times that I have felt serious envy. In fact, not so much envy as sheer, unadulterated admiration. She exuded cool, sexiness and confidence. She outshone all the other women around her. She wasn’t tall or glamorous or stunning looking. She wore a pair of sweat pants and runners and a fine, v-necked jumper and she had her hair in a ponytail. She hadn’t a shred of make-up on (yes, I admit, I caught up with her, passed her out and then looked back as though waiting for someone to catch up with me). But there was something about her poise and the natural way she moved her hips and how completely devoid of fuss or ceremony she was that just catapulted her above everyone else in the area. Many, many miles higher. I was completely captivated by her.

How many times have I heard men say that they prefer a woman without make-up and how many times have I laughed and said “yes, but that’s only because you don’t realise that even the natural ones are wearing it”? Not this one.

If only I had had this revelation 15 years ago, I could have saved myself an awful lot of money and Crème de la mer would probably have ceased trading by now.