The gloomy redbrick residence of the Archbishop of Westminster is decidedly lacking in festive cheer. On the wide ceremonial staircase, flanked by dark portraits of 10 English cardinals, two priests are complaining in mock-lugubrious Father Ted -fashion about the spindly collection of pine branches that has been arranged around a nativity scene. "We could have done with a better Christmas tree," says one, "It's pretty mangy."

The Edwardian dwelling, on a backstreet adjoining Westminster Cathedral, is full of hushed whispers, sudden draughts, and echoing corridors. I'm ushered into the archbishop's oversized sitting room with its flamingo pink armchairs and standard-issue oil paintings of Rome and saints.