I was never asked to play a trumpet...or bang a drum. But I was always delighted to be taking part in the annual Whitsuntide Parade. Whitsuntide was always very special in Sheffield and pretty much everywhere in Northern England. It was more than just a nod towards Christianity and the Calendar of the New Testament, it was the start of summer, a time for new clothes, a time for large open air parties and games in a new-mown field.
Yes, it was also a time for stout Wesleyan hymns and preaching to the crowds. And for my Methodist grandparents a time to visit the Methodist College at Calver in Derbyshire and pledge a renewal of Faith.
The weather always seemed kinder to Whitsuntide than it did to the twin Bank Holidays with which Harold Wilson's Red Flag-flying did away with a huge slice of our English Heritage. May Day and Spring Bank Holiday always seemed to be colder, wetter, more thundery.
But the damage was done and not even the staunchest of Conservatives has ever moved to reverse it.
Then came Sunday opening when people could lawfully spend just a few hours shopping. And, later, a few hours more.
Suddenly people stopped going to Church. Children were neither taken to nor sent to Sunday School. Boys Brigades and Scouts no longer paraded through the streets on the first Sunday of the month, or whenever the local church or chapel celebrated a saint's day or anniversary.
And as one skittle falls so it knocks over another....and before much longer, as we moved into the 70s and 80s, shops also opened on Good Friday and Boxing Day.
Maundy Thursday had long lost its place in the school curriculum when children, still in school, because the holidays did not begin until that evening, would sit on the floor cross legged and listen to the wireless as a commentator related the Queen's visit to a Cathedral to hand out Maundy Money.
As the proud owner of four sets of Maundy Money, given to me by The Royal Almoner for the work I did on producing such broadcasts in the early 90s, I witnessed the demise of such broadcasts when a senior manager at the BBC deemed them "old-fashioned and unwanted".The BBC, that arbiter of taste and decency....and just one manager has the power to change a Nation's lifestyle at the stroke of a pen. And so another skittle fell.
But one of the less formal Easter traditions had already fallen victim to malign, spreading commercialism. Hot Cross Buns were no longer confined to Easter. Instead they went on sale in January, as soon as the Christmas cakes were stale. And Easter Eggs competed in size and content even as the Country lay under a mantle of snow and fog.
Now, Easter Holidays are so discrete from the Last Supper and The Crucifixion that it is a time to "Get Away" and fly to a far off ski resort, or grab some Winter sunshine in Tenerife. Palm Sunday is just another opening day at B & Q and Sainsbury's and Heathrow's queues grow longer by the hour.
Boxing Day....formerly a day of family togetherness, is a feast of frenzied bargain hunting or a boozy afternoon on the terraces. Already, Christmas Day is simply a feast of television entertainment and the Carols we learned and sang are piped at us from a million muzak makers in stores and malls for an interminable month or more, unrecognisable amongst a welter of Christmas Hits from Slade and Cliff Richard.
In less than a lifetime three cherished Festivals have been reduced to acts of commerce.
And are we richer for these changes? Are we spiritually better off? Were we asked whether we wanted to lose our cultural identity? The answer is on your lips. The question yours for the asking.
