We sat in what has become our seat looking down on the Vicarage Fields yesterday afternoon and talked of the crucifixion. The usual stragglers taking their allowable burst of exercise walked or ran out before us. There was a young lad training, doing various things like jumping, throwing discus like objects and speed running. A skinny thing, rather like Adam, played by Nicholas Lyndhurst in Butterflies. And the couple arrived too, the one that we see each afternoon, both sporting cotton sun hats. He walks ahead of her, and then sprints part of the way. It’s a stiff run, they must be in their eighties. He waves at us on our high seat, and says something neither of us can hear, particularly not him. What’d he say? What’d he say? We wave nevertheless and make a reply, some remark about the weather usually suffices. I started the conversation. I thought of the film, Jesus of Nazareth that was always on the TV when I was younger. We then tried to remember the name of the actor. You know the one, he said, he looks like my younger brother. I can’t remember. And I still can’t. I found the film harrowing. It is/was meant to be, I know, but nevertheless. All that pain, all that suffering. Did it make me a better Christian watching it? We talked of his pain, what it must’ve felt like. And those words, why have you forsaken me? It stopped us still, in that sunshine, with that glorious green space around us. Still. Still.