Geoff Stead, of Kendal, recalls his resistance to Sunday School and church as a boy in the 1950s

UNLIKE my siblings I firmly resisted going to Sunday School, throwing a tantrum every time the subject was raised, believing anywhere with the word school in it was the last place I wanted to spend my Sunday afternoons.

However, from the age of about five, I was taken by my parents on Sunday evenings to the church of their choice, which was two miles away and, to save bus fares, we walked both ways.

As we approached the building, a sinking feeling always came over me, knowing that it would be another two hours before we could leave.

Services were long, consisting of five hymns, an anthem from the choir, two Bible readings, a couple of prayer periods, a sermon, and various announcements.

The only bright spot, as far as I was concerned, was that I was allowed to take an Enid Blyton book with me into church, reading it clandestinely by holding it just below the balustrade of the gallery where we sat.

I found the adventures of the 'Famous Five' infinitely more interesting than the preacher's 45-minute sermon.

The other form of juvenile entertainment was folding my hymn sheet into halves, quarters, eighths, and so on, into a tiny rectangle.

A large man with a booming voice and florid complexion, who sat on our row, demanded of my parents, "Why isn't your boy singing?" "He's shy", replied Mam.

When I became old enough, I was able to stay at home on Sunday evenings, and later still, as a teenager to go hiking, usually returning too late to go to church.

Sometimes, I would meet Mam and Dad outside the church after the service, but their enthusiastic comments of "Really good sermon, this evening", left me unmoved, and it was several years before I became a regular atttender and discovered the thrill of vibrant worship in a number of other churches, even to this day, and I'm grateful for the upbringing that I had.