This summer, my daughter had her First Holy Communion, a rite of passage that stirs memories in parents of the day they received Communion for the first time. In England, thank goodness, it has not quite got to the point it has in Ireland, where the sacramental bit is merely the tiresome precursor to be hurried through in order to get to the main event: the bouncy castle, the cake and the collection of swag from assorted relatives. In London, the event has a less blatantly mercenary character than where I come from, and there is a little less of the hideous transformation of little girls into prom princesses, with fake tan, manicures and mini-wedding dresses.It is interesting the extent to which some of the pious external trappings of First Communion are unchanged. I do not