Insta-favouritism, WhatsApp overload and baby gifting guilt — modern godparenting is a minefield

Do you reject the devil and all rebellion against God?” said the vicar. “I reject them,” I replied, solemnly. “Do you believe and trust in God the Father, source of all being and life?” he asked. “I believe and trust in him,” I said again, perhaps slightly quieter this time.

I was in church yesterday muttering like a fundamentalist from a Louis Theroux documentary on behalf of my nine-month-old goddaughter, Molly. She is a sunny baby who never cries, and we share a fondness for salt-and- vinegar crisps, so I am delighted to be her godmother — but I did feel a twinge of inadequacy at these words. There are definitely pitfalls to being a modern godparent — and standing in church, swearing that you believe in God when, actually, you’re not at all sure that He exists given the state of the Conservative Party leadership campaign, is only one of them.

I can see why Prince Harry and Meghan have declined to name Archie’s godparents — the role itself these days is worrying enough and the hassle of being a “famous” godparent could make it infinitely worse.

Take present one-upmanship, for example. After church yesterday it was off to a pub for lunch. The other godparents produced their presents as if they were wise men in a nativity scene — a specially-commissioned print of an “M” for Molly, a necklace, an antique children’s chair. I ordered my present online too late so I didn’t have it with me. Yikes, one point down in the game already.

There’s also the social media policy to contend with nowadays. “You can social him, we say that to all the godparents,” my friend Tash told me recently when she asked if I’d be godmother to her son, Charlie. But what if I Instagram a picture of Charlie and then the mother of one of my other godchildren gets annoyed and accuses me of favouritism? You may laugh but if you’re a single, childless woman in your thirties you rack up godchildren a bit like the Pied Piper. How is one fair to them all?

Another girlfriend tells me of the alarming new fad for godparent WhatsApp groups — a mother sets one up to keep the godparents constantly informed about how little Spartacus is doing in spelling tests and swimming lessons. Because that’s definitely what we all need in our lives, another WhatsApp group.

It’s obviously a huge honour, and to all my friends who’ve asked me to step into the role, none of the above applies and I’m chuffed, thank you. I’m just worried about being able to discharge my duties properly — and I don’t want to be one of those strange adults who goes over for tea and scares the small child into cowering behind their parents’ legs.

Although yesterday, at least I fared better than one of my co-godparents who, after our long pub lunch, marched up to Molly and held out a card. “Here you go, Molly, this is for you.”

It wasn’t Molly. He’d mistaken her for someone else’s child, a boy called Freddie. So I’ve got to be a better godparent than him, right?

How I chased Pavarotti into the high seas

A new documentary on Pavarotti is released today, which reminds me of the time my younger sister tried to chat him up. Many years ago, when my siblings and I were small and on holiday in Barbados (yes, yes, very spoilt, I know), we watched from the beach as a hairy man the size of a mobile home lowered himself into the sea, helped by three minders.

It was Pavarotti, hissed my dad and, unable to stop us, we five children immediately raced into the sea after him, although I’m not entirely sure we understood who he was and we certainly weren’t experts on his oeuvre. I recall being more into The Lion King soundtrack at the time. After paddling out towards him like a shoal of sardines behind a whale, my brothers dared my little sister — then aged about seven — to ask what hotel room number he was in. This she did to great belly chuckles from Pavarotti. “Little girls should not ask such questions,” the singer finally replied, when he’d stopped laughing.

Thrilled with this encounter, we swam back and reported it our weary father who told us we were never going on holiday again. I’ve thought of Pavarotti fondly ever since.

Bestselling tales of the teenage snog

I finished my book of the summer last week. It’s David Nicholls’s Sweet Sorrow, a nostalgic story of first love which will make you well up with real tears and then laughter on alternate pages.

The One Day author will storm the bestsellers list so this isn’t a hugely original observation but I promise you his new book is well worth reading.

There’s one glorious paragraph in it about the hideousness of teenage snogging — “when my tongue tried to fight back against Sharon’s they had wrestled like drunks trying to squeeze past each other in a corridor” — which justified it for me alone.