ST PATRICK'S Day wasn't only a day off, it was the day when you could eat sweets in the middle of Lent, and wear shamrock that had been kept in a saucer of water that went brown overnight.
At Mass we sang lustily and loudly the hymn Dochas Linn Naomh Padraig, Aspal Mor na hEireann and I remember parents and their friends looking in amazement that we had managed to remember any Irish, or indeed anything at, all that we had been taught.
But to be honest, the day was usually a bit of a disappointment after that. There wasn't the deep chocolate satisfaction of an Easter egg, there wasn't the excitement and hysteria of Christmas.
We went all the way into town twice for the parade, and on both occasions there was much dissatisfaction expressed with the nature of the industrial floats. Personally, I was quite taken by it all and wanted to be one of the little girls with ringlets waving to the crowds from lorries of farm machinery or whatever. In fact, I was deeply jealous of them and wondered how I might topple one of them next year and go round on a float myself.
But I remember my mother and her friend telling each other that they should really get in touch with the ISPCC over those unfortunate little frozen waifs getting pneumonia all in the cause of advertising. "What kind of mother would let a child out without a coat in this weather?" my mother wondered as we froze on O'Connell Bridge watching them pass.
So my own hope's of waving from a lorry the following year began to dim. And then as age and exams began to take over, it always seemed to dawn on us that there were now only to weeks left, before exams and that we knew nothing. So St Patrick's Day was a desperate weekend for revision, sitting with my mouth full of sweets and my fingers in my ears trying to learn by heart the verbs that took the subjunctive, the 19th century prime ministers of Britain, the terms of the Peace of Westphalia and six good omni purpose openings for essays in French or Irish.
There wasn't the urge for a drink in my youth that I see all around me today. What I mean is, we weren't a pub going family so the closure of licensed premises didn't affect us.
I did know a girl who brought a red setter to the dog show in Ballsbridge she had the most amazing adventures, including being pawed by about a thousand drinkers who had gone there because of its bar exemption and, like Myles na gCopaleen, not only didn't know there was a dog show on but found it tiresome and thoughtless that so many people did appear to be accompanied by canines.
WHEN I was a teacher, St Patrick's Day was always welcome because it was a day off, of course. Not that we ever admitted that. Too many holidays, that's what they get, we all said in the staff room aching for the long lie in and turning over in bed when you should have been taking sixth year Latin.
Later, in The Irish Times's office, St Patrick's Day used to be a dull sort of day - we had to work, of course, because there was a paper the next day. By this time pubs had come to loom large in my life and the lack of the Pearl and Bowes and other places was sorely felt.
Then clever public relations people cottoned on to this and began to organise press receptions to promote their products. We all loved this to bits and went to them eagerly, giving them maximum coverage.
And after that there was a bit of travel abroad to write features on how the day was celebrated elsewhere. In New York, during six hours of watching open mouthed from either Bord Failte or the Bank of Ireland while the parade went down Fifth Avenue, the childhood urge to march and sit on floats had mercifully gone. By then I had joined the ranks that said those children from Mother Cabrini High School Band in her little yellow satin knickers would most definitely get their death of cold before the day was over.
And I spent the day in San Francisco once and listened to David Andrews making a speech in a hall which smelled pleasant and fragrant and interesting where everyone was terribly relaxed. And it might not have been an attitude changing substance that people were smoking.
And I spent it in Broken Hill in Australia, where nobody knew it was St Patrick's Day because they have a huge event called the St Patrick's Day races on an entirely different day, altogether and they told me I was soft in the head.
And I spent it in Abu Dhabi among the ex pats with sun tans, attitude and stamina who said I was chicken when I crawled to bed at 4 a.m. And when I worked in London I always loved it there, because everyone was afraid that they would get lonely and start blubbering for home, so the place was coming down with festivities. Journalists would say you'd have to pace yourself and plan a fantastic journey around the city so as not to miss the party at Irish Distillers, and to get to the Bank of Ireland in good time, taking in AIB on the way to the RTE gathering and then off to The Irish Times's party, the Aer Lingus one and, of course, the Trade Board.
Sometimes various Irish sections of the BBC would have little celebrations, and publishers might launch an Irish book on that day. Because it wasn't a bank holiday or anything for the English, it gave you an extra charge, roaring from one event to the next while they remained solemnly at work. With typical lack of consideration, various ministers would come over and address serious organisations, which meant we had to work as well. This was always regarded poorly.
BUT truth to tell, St Patrick's Day was almost always much better away from home than at home. I would feel disloyal about admitting this, so I used to keep a faraway look in my eye, implying that if I were only back here a high time would be had by all around on St Patrick's Day.
I will be in London this weekend, not recovering from Cheltenham, not preparing for Twickenham... but at the Book Fair in Olympia, about three and a half minutes walk away from our house so I can't say it's going to be difficult to get there.
And this is the first year that I genuinely would like to be in Dublin. I wait for reports of the new style St Patrick's Day and don't believe the begrudgers who say it's only going to be more of the same with bigger hype. I would certainly go out to see Paul McGrath marching and all else that has been promised.
I even have some old badges from New York parades "I'm Irish and Out of Control" and one with a picture of a potato saying "I'm going to get boiled on St Patrick's Day", which might have been nice and suitable to wear. But the day will be a little more restrained at the book fair, so a subdued bit of shamrock might be more appropriate.