Sunday morning and I'm in church.

This is not normal. I reckon the last time I was in church would have been seven years ago. That would have been in the same church, come to think of it. [1] And that, I realise with a shiver, may have been the last time I saw my dad before he died.

We're here for a Christening. That was the reason we were here last time, too. This time round it's the turn of my niece's eight-month-old son Dillan. [2] The very latest Jamieson. There are four generations of us in the building this morning.

My two heathen daughters are worried that they won't know what to do. "Oh, my God," Daughter Number Two starts to say as she looks at the order of service and then realises this is neither the time nor the place for such an outburst.

It's a sweet service. And surprisingly short. [3] Dillan is a star. And we all go back to my sister's for celebration nosh. Friends and family. Kids, teenagers in short dresses and high heels, middle-aged parents and the odd septuagenarian. Oh, and a cat.

In my head the afternoon proceeds like one long circular panning shot going around and around. Everyone is filling their faces with pasta and quiche and Malteser-flavoured cheesecake and talking about how quickly time passes.

I am reminding Dean, the eldest of my nephews of the nights I used to babysit him in Govan back when he was eight or nine. And how he used to insist on watching Aliens every time. His younger brother is snickering while playing NWA loud, missing the fact that his granny probably can't hear the music never mind the lyrics.

Daughter Number Two is nursing Dillan. "This is the first time I've ever held a baby," she says. She's not sure she's doing it right. She's also telling her aunt that her other aunt gave her a glass of Prosecco the night before. She didn't like it.

Time floats by. We have to go. We've a ferry to catch. But it's hard to pull away. With the exception of J, who has had to work this weekend, gathered here in this house are the people I love most in the world.

We leave it far too late to go to Larne. And then there's roadworks all the way. The dual carriageway has been reduced to a single lane. We have to check in at least half an hour before embarkation. We are never going to make it in time.

We don't. But it's OK. There are a couple of hundred Scottish motorcyclists heading home from the North West 200 road race on the north coast. The boat has been delayed for half an hour to get them all on.

God probably arranged it especially for the atheists in the congregation.

[1] We're talking north Belfast, Church of Ireland here.

[2] That's how it's spelt. Don't ask me why.

[3] In my childhood services went on for hours, I seem to remember. Possibly days. But that was Presbyterian.