Every now and then I like to pop into a church. I was brought up Catholic, which ought to be enough to cure anyone of their religious beliefs for life, but such indoctrination lives long and is rooted deeply in the psyche. So every now and then I like to pop in and say hello to the old fella, just to keep my hand in.

St Bartholomews in Brighton is a spectacularly impressive space; the vaulted ceilings almost induce a sense of agoraphobia. While Anglican in denomination, it’s also very ‘high church’ (literally and metaphorically in this instance) so the smell of incense was thick in the air.

As it was mid-day on Sunday mass had only recently finished and the congregation were still milling around the vast space, making polite conversation, drinking tea and enjoying biscuits. When you see such easy and comfortable conversations you begin to understand why people still go to church.

I spied Frieda sitting alone and to one side, drinking her tea. I made conversation with her and learned that she had come to Brighton as a nurse specialising in paediatrics and midwifery in 1970. She had had something of a fierce reputation during her time and I warmed to her as a result. She could be my mother, who was also a nurse and still is a force of nature, though she is merely a youngster at 73 compared to Frieda’s 91 years.

The light in the church wasn’t great; in fact Frieda was sitting below a rather yellow incandescent light, but she looked so wonderful I couldn’t help but ask to photograph her.