Sam Redlark

  Whenever I am in Cornwall, I make a point of paying a solitary visit to the church of St Peter Under Aylward. As is the case with all worthwhile pilgrimages, this excursion is not without a degree of personal risk. On paper, the chapel remains in service, despite the considerable handicap of occupying Atlantic real estate currently submerged at a depth of between 15 - 27 feet, depending upon the disposition of the tide along the northern coast. St Peter's fell victim to a landslip in 1902, that also claimed a trailing thread of its parent village. The thick-walled buildings were constructed from the same rough-hewn masonry that was used to assemble a multitude of stone circles in this part of the country, many of which stand to this day. The seven underwater structures have endured their 12-decade exile from dry land (which has placed them at the mercy of the battering Irish Swell) largely unscathed, though all have lost their roofs. The church, in its present location, has becom

When was the last time that you shrugged in real life, or were present when somebody else did? And was it before or after the most recent appearance of Halley's Comet? Shrugging as a gesture has fallen into disuse, rightly so in my opinion. It is a glib embodiment of half-baked defeat that is, in and of itself, defeatist to the core; a method of using your entire upper body to communicate to other people in your vicinity that, not only are you an idiot, but that you are also shaking off any responsibility to mitigate your ignorance. I have resorted to shrugging in the past and, in doing so, have caused irreparable damage to my immortal soul. Whether this wilful self-injury is sufficient to deny me access to the Kingdom of Heaven, after my death, only time will tell. At present, if I was given an option between expressing my helplessness either by shrugging or by punching a wall, I would bear the skinned knuckles and keep my dignity. I would also pay for any damage that I caused to

My comment on this week's 'Notes & Queries' has been struck down by The Guardian censors. I include it here for anyone who wishes to read it. Gather your smelling salts and ensure that you arrange any pearls that you own within clutching distance. How do you conquer your fear of missing out? “Do you like my ring?” enquired Esme Soley. She raised her left index finger. The changing pattern of light on the stone wall made me wince inwardly. The ring was the first thing that I noticed after I was shown into her tiny living room. And no, I did not like it. There was something off about the cut of the gem, as if whoever had been perched behind the diamond tool had been drunk and had lost their equilibrium. It reflected the light in a manner that was unsettling. “If you do not like it, then say,” she chided. “Okay, I think it's appalling.” An image of a younger Esme flashed into my head, dripping from head-to-toe in gold jewellery, inhabiting a slender peach-toned ellipse