Dug out my passport last week and headed up to Fermanagh for a concert. Not my usual type of thing I have to say since far from seeing a stage festooned with somewhat grubby young men wielding shrieking guitars and even more shrieking voices this was in fact a concert of sacred music performed by the University choir. And the noise they made was nothing short of amazing. Gave the lie somewhat to the notion that all young people are drug-guzzling axe murderers and thieves and made one thing about some of the deeper things in life – but only for a little while mind you.

The concert was in St Michael's Church in Enniskillen, a fine venue for such music, both atmospherically and acoustically and during one of the deeper moments when I was lost in contemplation about the second leg of the Champions League I noticed a little room at the side of the church which had on it a brass plaque reading – The Reconciliation Room.

Now I have been to a number of churches for both funerals and weddings but this is the first time I have come across a reconciliation room. However, every church should have one even if I have no idea what it is used for.

Is this the place where Big Ian and Wee Marty met to patch up things for the Stormont gig? Would Heather and Paul still be on speaking terms if they had just booked five minutes there and then headed off to the nearest restaurant for a celebratory prawn cocktail? Or might this be where the bold Bin Laden is holed up waiting for the moment when George W decides that actually talking to someone might be another strategy to get out of this fine mess he has got himself into. (Note to Bin Laden: it could be a long wait.)

In truth I am fascinated by this little annex. Has Enniskillen got a lower divorce rate than the rest of the country through the work of the reconciliation room? Has there been a distinct drop in the number of people fighting in the street since it opened and does it do a roaring trade on a Saturday night as young men face up to each other full of the strength cheap alcohol induces only to be shepherded into this room by long-suffering girlfriends? Do the PSNI pay the church a rich retainer for the amount of crime this room keeps off the streets of Enniskillen and surrounding area?

But maybe it all has actually to do with finance. There used to be a tax office in Enniskillen (might still be but I've been shifted to Derry) and perhaps this is where one was taken to reconcile the budget before either paying up or being led away to the debtor's prison.

Or maybe it is as simple as a place where you go when you have had enough to sit quietly until you realise that life is indeed a b***h and then you die so you might as well just get used to and get on out there and make the best of things.

According to an article in the paper the other day they could do worse than send some of their own Polish priests to it for a bit of conscience examining. Apparently many of them are being fined and have the threat of prison hanging over them because they have been plagiarising sermons. Not quite sure how this works since the Bible is the Bible and I thought the point in it was to copy both it and its tenets at all times. And where exactly does one find sermons to plagiarise them? Is there a bookshop for priests selling the Big Book of Sermons or a short version, the Best Ten Sermons Ever? And surely it is like writing where you would know immediately whether this sermon was being delivered in the kind of voice with the kind of vocabulary you are accustomed to hearing each week. But since the world is now obsessed with plagiarising and its consequences we should reconcile ourselves to the fact that it is unacceptable. Personally I would just be happy if students could spell it never mind actually do it but I'll concede it is an even greater wrong if it is being done from the pulpit of a sacred place.

But let me tell you the saddest thing about this little room. So taken with it was I that I decided to go and spend some time there in an attempt to reconcile all the sad, sorry aspects of my dwindling life. To find some peace and reconcile myself to the bitter pill that is the aging process. And you know what? It was locked!