Molly was diagnosed as terminally ill four years ago. When doctors discovered that she was "riddled" with cancer at the age of 25, she was given weeks to live. "God" and a strange Christian sect in north London were duly discovered. There were Bible readings midweek, songs of praise Friday and several group talks over the weekend, culminating in a big, happy-clappy rally every Sunday. Her partner described her as turning from a wild child into "Carrie's mum".

She found the "cleansing" part of being born-again a bit hard at first. "Everything's a sin," she sighed over her favourite spaghetti Bolognese. She missed smoking dope. "How can using spliff to kill the pain be wrong?" she asked, coyly flirting with the hunky young Italian waiter who poured her water. As he turned towards the kitchen, she looked at his very pert buttocks and collapsed in giggles. "Oops! That thought was definitely a sin, dammit." Even with a drip in her arm and God in her heart, she would sweep down the stairs in skin-tight jeans, kitten heels and shimmering, arm-slashed blouses.

Religion worried her friends. After all, being useless sinners to a man, we don't find it easy to talk about anything serious without a Jack Daniel's in one hand and a Marlboro in the other. But, as we got on with our oh-so-busy lives and Molly's illness vanished from the conversation, perhaps God filled the void we left, and kept her going.

Two years ago, fresh from a course of chemotherapy and reinvigorated after church, she ended up dancing to Donna Summer on an estate agent's table late one night. Molly was completely bald but, with a gamine-style wig on, and with her painted, highly arched eyebrows, she seemed nothing more or less than a happy, healthy and hip chick.

The illness carried on doing its disastrous work despite God, "Bad Girls" and the occasional sin. And Molly (whenever well enough to walk) insisted on continuing to teach children with learning disabilities how to read and write. Sometimes, after a particularly harsh series of treatments, she'd vomit between classes, but she rarely missed a lesson.

Molly is something of an endangered species in these Blairite times. Take the speech by the Home Office minister Paul Boateng at the UK launch of Big Brothers and Sisters. This mentoring charity matches children in difficulties from one-parent families with suitable "mentors", who spend time with the children and separate them (for a couple of hours) from their difficult environment. It demands a commitment of only three hours a week, yet the directors find it very difficult to get adult male volunteers. "They need to find it 'cool'," one explained.

And as for Boateng, well, the "charitable" thing for him to have done would have been simply to make a short, sweet speech, such as: "I congratulate the founders and sponsors on their good work, and am here to outline very briefly the help that the Home Office intends to provide the scheme."

But, no, the Right Honourable member gloated for more than ten excruciating minutes on the subject of "how this project proves that schemes for the public, helped by private money, are always a success, and anyone who says differently can shut up". The charity's directors, supporters and sponsors shuffled their feet and looked bemused as boring Boateng managed to crowbar the phrase "public working in tandem with private" more than 30 times (by my count) into his speech.

When, in June, Molly was bluntly told that she had weeks to live (again), few of her pals chose to believe it. But she died, suddenly, on Saturday 30 July. I called all our mutual friends to tell them the news. With just two exceptions, the immediate reaction was: "Ohh nooo, I've been meaning to see her for ages, but never got around to it."

Charity begins at home. There, in the company of only her mother, this wonderful young woman died.

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