When I was a child in the sixties (which is not the same as being a child of the sixties), things were a lot different and children just did what they were told. My Irish parents decided that I would become an altar boy at the local Catholic church and lo, it came to pass.  A lot of my friends were on the altar, too. There were no tests, no qualifications were needed, you just asked the priest who always said yes. Many a Sunday there were at least as many of us crowded onto the altar, falling over each other, arguing over whose turn it was to hold the Communion plate, as there were members of the congregation.
 One of the perks of being an altar boy was that, when you helped at weddings or funerals, the grateful family would weigh in with a few shillings, which could be exchanged for penny chews and Arrow bars.
 The day came when I was chosen to go to the cemetery with the priest and I was to take the holy water round the graveside and allow the family to sprinkle the coffin. It was a typical funereal day; raining, windy, miserable, cloud as low as the family's spirits and the cemetery was indeed a wretched place. The bereaved were crowded round the grave, crying and upset that whoever it was had gone and I was squeezing between unfeeling, unyielding bodies as I strove to do my duty, offering the container and sprinkler to all and sundry.
 Trying to be unobtrusive, I unfortunately passed too close to the open grave, my foot slipped on the mud and in I went! Imagine, if you will, the thoughts that run through the mind of a seven-year-old when he finds himself in an open grave, face-down upon a coffin. As there was no way that I could reach up to pull myself out , two of the mourners had to jump in and lift me out, screaming and yelling like, well, like a child who's just fallen into a grave, I suppose. I didn't sleep for about a fortnight afterwards and still shudder when I pass a cemetery.