Angels and saints were high on my agenda last weekend, as I literally winged my way to England for a five-week visit. Around my neck, a silver Saint Christopher, and in my thoughts, celestial beings such as my Christmas angel, as I willed them to keep the plane afloat.

I am not a huge fan of being off the ground, but once we’re up and I surrender to the idea, it is a treat – not to mention a miracle – to be soaring above the earth. I never watch a film: I look out of the window instead. With an ‘angel’s view’ around São Paulo, I scribbled in my journal about scattered skyscrapers and smoke rising, squiggly edged land dissolving into water, and deeply indented brown-paper hills. A sense of timelessness, of ancient lands.

So, at last I have engineered an introduction to one of my favourite angels at Recoleta Cemetery, even though it is not even remotely close to the festive season (she earned her name when I made her into postcards to send at Christmas last year). I love the way the reflected column appears as rays of light, connecting her to higher realms.