I presumed they were Kurds. They could of course just as easily have been Iranians, Iraqis, or even Italian Muslims, when it came down to it, but I still settled on Kurds. Ever since I got to know Nefis, who is a Turk, I have become pretty good at noticing details that I can’t define, strictly speaking, but which mean I rarely get it wrong. The woman was weeping, hiding her face in her hands.

‘There, you see!’ shouted Kari Thue. ‘You’ve -’

The priest wearing the Brann scarf, who was at least as well known from television as Thue herself, moved towards them.

‘Let’s all just calm down, shall we,’ he intoned, placing a calming hand on the shoulder of the agitated Kurdish man. ‘My name is Cato Hammer. We should all be friends and have some consideration for each other in a situation like -’

He ran his other hand down Kari Thue’s back. She reacted as if he had been anointing her with sulphuric acid, and turned around so fast that she almost dropped the little rucksack she carried over one shoulder.

‘Get off!’ she hissed. ‘Don’t touch me!’

He removed his hand at once.

‘I really do think you need to calm down a little,’ he said in a fatherly tone.

‘This has nothing to do with you,’ she said. ‘I’m trying to conduct a conversation with this woman!’

She was so preoccupied with the genial priest that the Kurd seized his chance. With a firm grip on his wife’s arm he hurried away from the reception desk and disappeared in the direction of the stairs, where a sign carved in wood announced that you were now entering St Paal’s Bar.

I don’t like priests. I dislike them and imams in equal measure, although I haven’t actually come across many of the latter. I did once meet a rabbi who was quite decent, but that was in New York. On the whole I have little time for religion, and particularly for those who act as stewards for various religious beliefs.