A hotel executive tells this story:

‘The hotel I manage is located near a renowned hospital. Recently, we noticed that a man and a boy were visiting regularly and surmised that they were father and son, and that the son was undergoing treatment at the hospital. One evening, the father sent the boy up to bed and called over the head waiter. “My son is about to start chemotherapy tomorrow,” he said. “He’s really upset at the prospect of his hair falling out, so he’s decided to shave it all off tonight. I’m going to do the same to support my son. When you see us tomorrow morning, please don’t react.”

‘The head waiter was touched by the story and briefed his colleagues. The next morning, father and son came down with bald heads, feeling rather nervous. But, as they went in to breakfast, they gradually realised they weren’t the only ones who looked a bit different that day. No fewer than ten members of staff had shaved their heads out of solidarity with the boy.’

Being a policeman is not an easy task. Take the other night, for example; the PC visiting the youth group I help out with had the unenviable task of giving a talk on police policy for stopping and searching young people. A fairly routine PR exercise for the boys in blue, but in this instance the speaker knew not only that many of the youths had first hand experience of being stopped and searched, but also that it was he who had carried out those searches.

When Anita Roddick founded the Body Shop in 1976, there was nothing remarkable about hippyish lefties dreaming of a new order. No one guessed that, in pursuing her dream, this particular eco-worrier would build a multi-million-dollar global brand with a dominant high-street presence.

Come on, admit it. Deep down, you’re a fan. You may laugh at the karaoke clowns in sequinned jumpsuits, sporting grease-slicked quiffs and reaching into the depths of their souls to summon their inner King, but secretly you wish it was you up there belting out Suspicious Minds and, in between pelvis shakes, delivering the odd karate kick.

‘Is the surface ultimately all there is?’ It could easily be the title of a book by John Stott, but this is the question currently confronting audiences at London’s Cottesloe Theatre in a new play by Nicholas Wright.

The Reporter is based on the remarkable life of the BBC correspondent and film-maker (and former MI6 agent) James Mossman, and specifically his last eight years. It begins with him ‘reporting’ on his own death, reading the suicide note he left behind in his Norfolk cottage: ‘I can’t bear it any more, though I don’t know what “it” is.’

In his distinctive BBC tones, he comments: ‘The “it” is cradled inside a pair of inverted commas, as though to protect it against enquiry. But a reporter must enquire. It’s what we do. What is “it”? How could a man in whose death “it” played such an intimate part not know?’

The purpose of the play thus declared, The Reporter goes on to examine the social climate in the years before Mossman’s death in 1971 and searches for the truth behind his bewildering end.

The year is 1780. A sailing ship is ploughing through heavy seas across the Atlantic, loaded almost to the gunwales with a cargo of human beings. They are chained together on narrow shelves, soaked in sweat, blood, vomit and excrement.

Recently, I’ve been wondering: Does my ‘community’ work for me any more? I’ve been part of a little gathering of Christian searchers, church refugees, dreamers and mavericks for several years now, but it’s hardly a model of church growth to rival Mars Hill…