Le stelle di San Lorenzo

Hot and sunny once again. On the terrace there's a very large speckled hen eyeing a very large tabby cat. Don't ask.

One August night, back in oh my God, 1980, I was sweet sixteen. It was late. I was going home after the most dramatic evening of my young life. I was massively in love as only a 16-year-old can be, walking six feet above the ground, life vibrating through every nerve of my body. And other clichés.

Van Morrison's 'Moon Dance' spooled again and again through my mind. And above me, stars were falling, and I was wishing.

Fast forward to August 1988. A concert at Kenwood, where they played 'Scheherazade' hauntingly under the stars. The same stars that later rained down upon me as I lay in the arms of someone, swinging gently in a hammock strung across a Hampstead roof-garden. I remember clearly my wish that night. I'm still waiting.

And last night, lying on Carmine Superiore's ancient, darkened churchyard, experiencing a different kind of love. My three-year-old daughter asleep on my belly, and my 4-year-old son supine beside me, gazing upwards and asking impossible questions about the nature of stars, of space, of heaven, of eternity. Between sundown and moonrise, we saw San Lorenzo's stars whoosh across the sky, and on each and every one of them I wished the same secret wish.

And Carmine is a place where wishes come true.