THE wind didn't so much whistle as cat-call around the House of God, which was closed. Someone desperate had scrabbled for a long while at the inner lip of the wooden storm doors, picking away at the dead tree flesh until a crescent of vandalism appeared. A giant

toothy hamster with the munchies would have left much the same bite mark. In comparison, however, to this evidence of upset and frustration, the surroundings and grounds were expertly manicured. Not a blade was straying from the lawn. No stragglers, no rebels in the flock, just an omnipresent propriety. You can't expect to hone feelings of worship in a messy environment. This was a place where emotions were streamlined into bearability. Contained professionally, even, to the grave.

I haven't been to church for a long time. I spy such buildings on my way to and from town, the spiritual pit-stops between concerts and shopping. The relics of an order which no longer exists, past statements of habit, purpose, of an unquestionable and unshakeable belief in the ultimate answer to why we are here. No-one is that sure anymore. No philosophy provides complete nourishment. This place was empty to me. Some readers sense by disinterest in humility. I have a library of novellas, and a litter of little notes, asking me to devour words of hope and salvation, with ''an open heart and mind''. For the record, my mind is dark and my heart squeakily ajar. The sun itself would have a hard job getting in.

To paraphrase Blanche Dubois, who was also suitably sultry and a little worn, I am grateful for the passing interest of strangers, although I fear I may disappoint when I admit that I wasn't in church to pray. I was here to sing.

The journey to the South Side of Glasgow was fraught with

pre-performance anxiety. The air was palpable with a Dad's Army tension, bruised with a Mr Jones panic. My music teacher's sister, a fellow performer, had decided to bring along a blind friend. Disability is not a problem, only the mechanics of negotiating such hard luck demands, provides, confusion. ''Mind your precious head!'' she instructed, as he attacked my pianist, organising his white stick along two sets of frozen, seated thighs. We endured the random proddings and stabbings in stoic and heroic silence. ''I'm okay,'' he shouted, trying to crush himself through the car doorway. My pianist put his leg over the rabid white stiletto to kill it. ''Where are we going?'' my teacher finally asked, settling into the driver's seat. ''Wait until I put my specs on,'' said her sister, ferreting in her bag. ''It helps so much to be sighted.'' I look at her friend. He sighed. The sunglassed interloper,

suddenly fell into a stoic silence, too.

The acoustics in the sanctuary were conspiratorially muggy, as if the church had been wrapped in a quilt.

Maybe God was already cushioning the noise. I may not be the best singer in the world, but I am pretty damn good. I tried not to take the oppressive density of the atmosphere as an insult. This was a concert mainly for the pupils of the various singing teachers in Scotland and, therefore, a recital of a more compassionate nature. The judgment of the audience was benign, yet singers were nauseatingly superior. My teeth ached at their glucose smiles, as if I had overdosed on sugar. I wished everyone well, although I have to admit that I prayed for the more unctuous to miraculously lose their voice, the fingers that plucked the harp or played the piano to be taken by Lucifer. Given our location, I thought my pleadings would be doubly effective. But God still had his duvet over the temple, with stereo headphones on His ears, listening to music of his own choice. Don't blame Him, really. He probably

has to emigrate on a Sunday. Although where He'd go, I don't quite know.

I was to sing after the second half, on nothing stronger than diluted orange juice, which, I was warned, after selecting a purple tumbler on the tray, was actually for ''the children''. Took it anyway. Church biddies always make you feel wrong, as if they have to visit upon you the negativity of the world in order that you understand it is there.

Back on the set, omnipotent posters read ''Let the light of Jesus shine on you, and you shall be saved''. Pertinent advice, I thought, as I waited for my turn on the stage.

Although the man can't save you from bum notes and wrong words, he probably awards you more forgiveness for your mistakes than your tutor can humanely muster. My piece, Come Unto Him, by Handel, became Come Unto Me, in the bathroom. But I consoled myself with the fact that out of all the songs to be sung this afternoon, mine, literally, was the most divine.

I don't like to remark on other singers, yet I feel I must comment on the woman with the flying book. I have been instructed to stand still, and let my weight seep into the floor, rooting myself in a relaxed trance, to free my voice. This gal swooped from side to side, like a slice of A4 paper zigzagging to the ground. Her open songbook, a young Jonathan Livingstone Seagull, cruised and dive-bombed on a rugged, wintry coastline. We were seasick by the time she'd finished.

And then I had my moment. I faced the house down like a

pitbull in heat. I remembered

the arrogance of the more

practised, and the conceit of the less able. So I competed. I did well. So well, in fact, my entourage were agog with advice. ''Never, ever lower your head. Audiences are easily fooled. You must be a

queen. Then they will think you are one.'' They cannot be that stupid, surely, I thought.