I see my friend that night, and we have a quiet pint in North London. He insists on paying. I smile, and remember the blog. How could anyone write such things about a man who would not only buy another man a pint, but who would offer you some of his Twiglets, too? Is that not what Jesus would do with a packet of Twiglets, if Jesus really loved Twiglets?

When I get home, warmed by lager, I cannot resist. I check the bishop's blog once more. He has replied.

'Thank you for your input,' he says, which I am pleased about. 'But if I had written anything that was not correct, you might be right in your conjecture.'

I am outraged! Not correct? Might be right? He is standing by his statement! He is saying it is the truth! Not just his opinion -but the truth! What if he also thought it was the Way and the Light? That could really hurt my friend's career!

I must resist the urge to read on. I must turn the other cheek. But I don't. 'If you are offended,' he continues, 'then I am very sorry for telling the truth.'

That was not an apology!, I think, shaking my head. Clever bishop!

And then I realise. I am a teenage girl. And so is the bishop. We are just two teenage girls pointlessly squabbling about celebrities. I don't want to be a teenage girl, pointlessly squabbling with a bishop. I only had myself to blame. I'd written 'I forgive you', which was cheeky, but he'd started it, by picking on my mate. And then we'd both sat at our computers - a grown man and a potential pope - waiting for the other to respond.

I realise the bishop and me are never going to agree. I post again, feebly telling him he'd not really apologised, but insisting he enjoys his tea. He posts back, jokily challenging me to a duel.

I meet up with my friend and tell him that I've been involved in a dispute concerning him. A dispute that never would've happened in the real world. A dispute between me and a bishop.

'Ha,' he says, not in the least concerned. 'That's bishops for you.'

I walk home, and I realise, no: that's the internet for you.

I decide not to log on when I get back.

I pass a church, and I walk a little quicker.

THE SCAN

My first cup of coffee is a large one. It's early in the morning and we're at the clinic where we'll be able to see a baby scan of our upcoming release.

Other soon-to-be parents wander around, as clueless as us, and we smile at them and nod, the same way people who own VW campervans flash their lights at each other when they pass.