I WAS baptised twice.
The first time was, I think, on the day I was born, a premature twin, with some doubt hanging over both of us about whether we would last the day.
That was in the bedroom of a house in Muff, on the Irish border, just up the road from Derry, my father’s home city.
The second time I was baptised was more formally at the little church at Iskaheen in proximity to a holy well when I was more than a year old.
Both occasions were profound infringements of my human rights. I had not thought this until now but I have it on the authority of canon lawyer and former president of Ireland, Mary McAleese.
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