"First, I would like to take a moment to be grateful for the chance to meet together like this," says the minister, "it is a joy to do so."
Admittedly he us using the word 'joy' partly to introduce the next hymn, which features 'joy' quite a lot, but as he says it, I have a rush of joy. It does feel good to do this. Faith is not a church or a set if rules. It's between you and your God. But humans are social beings, and there's a reason why like minded people get together. Why they have done so over the centuries. It's because it helps to be among others. A faith not shared, swapped, strengthened between people, can be a lonely one. Unless you're...well, God. And even he got lonely. He got so desperate he created human beings.
I enjoy the service. It's a moment of normality, of familiarity and it is, not to sound too puke inducing, a little bit like coming home.
The plan, today, when I arrive back to join M, having breakfasted twice already (once on toast before leaving and once at church) is to go for breakfast (I keep quiet about the other two) and then walk down the street known in Georgetown as 'Harmony Street' because it contains a Hindu, Taoist, Muslim and Christian place of worship. And, as you may have guessed, everyone's not busy storming each other and burning the icons.
We do this. The two temples are beautiful, but, characteristically we are unable to talk to anyone or learn much about them. It seems a lot harder to get clear teaching on what is or is not in polytheistic religions. It just doesn't seem to really work like that. The mosque on the other hand is more forthcoming in this regard. There is an information kiosk but its not open today. We need to return tomorrow. We duly do this but we take the opportunity to look at the mosque itself while we are there. I am horribly under informed about Islam so hang around awkwardly, trying to fix a shawl over my head and not venture too far into the grounds, but M speaks to the man at the door and he waves us in. We are allowed to enter the mosque to walk around the edge though must not go in unless we are praying and there are a rack of light blue robes with hoods that I can slip on over my clothes, solving the shawl problem.
And it is this I want to concentrate on today - the aspect of clothing.
I have often wondered what it feels like to wear a long gown and a hood or head coveting as a woman is it freeing or restrictive? Breezy or hot?
Actually it's quite nice. For one thing I am not the only one wearing it. Another couple of visitors, including a man, (he was wearing shorts) both wander by wearing them.
For one thing it gets over the practical difficulties. I don't have to seek out the longest sleeved, most high necked ankle length garments in my limited wardrobe and then shuffle about tugging them self consciously down or up.
But beyond then, I don't have to think about how I walk, how I sit, don't have to realign bra straps or check my buttons haven't come undone. I wear my bag across my body while I am travelling, and I don't have to feel self conscious about the way the strap falls between my cleavage. In fact it is only as I put on this robe that I realise how many petty little adjustments I am constantly making to my clothes and how often I am thinking rather nervously about them. I think about bending forward or reaching up, about skirts tucked into things or blowing up, about trousers getting ruched up, about tops riding up, or about underwear making outlines. In this robe - none of that matters. All I have to worry about is being comfortable (admittedly in this heat that can be hard to achieve).
There's more to it than that too. I don't hold in my stomach. I don't glance up and find the perfect midriff of the woman opposite me is able to spark in me a wave of depression. I don't interpret stares as judgement or lasciviousness. In fact, there is a delicious element of feeling invisible. I don't care too much any more about the clothes I wear and whether they are smart enough or fit the current fashion - but I can't help thinking that as a teenager, in those days when I really used to, a loose robe would have covered a multitude of inadequacies and perceived inadequacies.
I am not talking about the religious element to this, about whether women should be forced to wear them or not - in fact here no one us forced and the dresses and head dresses commonly worn are bright and individual. What I am discovering is a moment of freedom from the more unseen shackles of body image, market forces and sexual attraction.
After the mosque we go to the Peranakin mansion, a mansion once owned by a very rich Baba Nyonya family, now housing a collection of articles, clothing and jewelry once owned by rich Baba Nyonyas across Malaysia.
The opulence is beautiful, but a little sickening - but what strikes me more is the extreme pressure, especially on women, in matters of dress. If a woman did not wear enough heavy gold jewellery and show her wealth, she would not be considered worthy by her in laws or future in laws. The 'little nyonyas' wore so much beading they were weighed down by it. Even a widow must wear certain colours, black in the first year of mourning, blue in the second, green in the third. And jewellery to match of course. You literally wore your status, both monetary and emotional, on your sleeve. Anonymity and privacy are hard to come by when dress is so codified.
And nowadays we wear on our sleeve our own status - our place in the race to be thin, beautiful, fashionable, smart. We still wear labels to show our clothing is expensive. We use jewellery the same way. We use make up and underwear as disguise. In South East Asia all girls of a certain age seem to have the same, bobbed hairstyle. I would have thought it was mandatory if I didn't know better. And in a way it is. And what if you don't fit the norm? What if your body doesn't suit the clothes in the shops. What if, on the contrary, you are lucky enough to be simply naturally beautiful, according to the structures of your culture. Isn't that horribly unfair?
Maybe, to cover your clothes and your body with a uniform robe, could help create unity, could be the great leveller?
But then, is a school uniform not intended to do this? And yet, in the UK at least, there is still pressure. To wear it a certain way, to have the right coat, even the right socks - every tiny bit of potential customisation is seized upon and made into its own immovable shackles. And it doesn't begin to address the ideal of a perfect and uniform body shape.
Even where, as in Islam, your religion wisely suggests a dress which will provide freedom from the body image debate, because the whole idea is that you are not on show - you are perfectly permitted to dress normally with other women - notoriously the harshest critics. And you can, at least in the version adhered to here, chose any number of imaginative, bright, colourful fabric to wear it in.
If course we are missing the point. The point is that the real release from these hang ups, across many faiths, with or without a specific dress code, is supposed to be born in your mind. We should believe these things to be unimportant, should be beautifying only our souls. Why is it so hard to be released, even when you believe fervently, when asked, that it is really not important?
I don't have an answer. Clearly it should be possible. Maybe some people even manage it. But as for the rest of us...
Maybe it feels so important because there are so many of us - and not enough words. How will the woman I have just met know my soul is beautiful? How will she know who I am if I don't use my clothes to express it? Will she not want to find out how attractive my soul is, if I don't look interesting enough to speak to in the first place?
The rules themselves - the specifics of how we should look are set out, by the various despotic and tyrannical dictators which are society, advertisements, media and trend.
But perhaps the reason they have so much power, the reason we care about how we look at all is simply because not everyone we meet will speak to us.
And yet, somehow, we are lonely - and we want to be known.
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