Are you ready for my confession? Not only do I fear that I’m still not a proper Jew — prone to fantasies involving Parma ham, gag in the presence of chopped herring — when I was a child I went to a Christian primary school. And when I say Christian, I don’t mean a little light grace before school luncheon; I mean Mass every Thursday, hymns every morning, and hot and cold running priests in every corridor.

There were two state primaries within walking distance of our home, both C of E: St G’s, the very scary one (possible knife fights) and St. A’s, the only moderately scary one (mostly only fist fights). My parents had visited the latter previously for my older sister but were told: “We have had the occasional Jewish child but they’ve never been very happy here.” My father rightly considered this to be a Bad Sign, so sent my sister to a private school. It was quite a long bus journey, however, and they’d begun to suspect that the head was a psychological bully. It was a Montessori school, prompting our mother to nickname the Head “Montosaurus Rex”, which was amusing though probably less helpful than removing my sister from the school might have been.

In the meantime, they learned that St A’s had a new head, who was very kind and not at all antisemitic and so that’s where I went. St A’s was Anglican, very High Church, barely a whisker off Catholic at least in appearance. The priests (not vicars) wore floor-length black cassocks rather than black trousers and jackets, there was a phenomenal amount of incense at services (I once over-inhaled and vomited all over the pew), and an emphasis on the Virgin Mary and Jesus rather than on the Big G Himself. These fine distinctions echo some of the intriguing gradations and differences in denominations in Judaism; no wonder I feel so at home now.

We attended mandatory Mass every Thursday at the church opposite, presided over by one of the same priests who came to teach us Religious Instruction every day and often led our school assemblies, teaching us bible stories. Despite all this, some bright spark must have concluded that our little lives were spiritually deficient because they then added a special Benediction service for us at the church every Friday.

Benediction is like a speed-dating version of Simchat Torah, only in place of the scrolls, the object of excitement and veneration is the Host (communion wafer). The Host is shown off in a triumph of bling, a metal sunburst called a “monstrance” or an “ostensorium”. Like a Torah crown, this has a decorative and symbolic value but is short on function. The priest gets to have the big wafer, while members of the congregation receive little wafers — not very egalitarian, but there you go.

Communion wafers are not wafers as in lovely pink ones that get left in the biscuit tin because no-one else likes them except for me; they’re wafers as in thin and crispy, a kind of rice paper-polystyrene hybrid. I did eat one once but given that I wasn’t confirmed or even baptised (being a little bit Jewish even back then), I’m pretty sure I wasn’t supposed to. It must have occurred in my last year when we all had to go up to the altar rail and kneel to receive our parting gift from the church — a horrid metal plaque with Jesus on it for the boys and one with Mary on it for the girls (the Holy Virgin — that one, not some random woman called Mary).

While in my last year there, I was at my friend Sara’s house playing when one of the priests came to discuss Sara’s forthcoming confirmation with her mother.

Sara and I ran in from the garden to ask for biscuits so had to say hello to Father Boyd. Then he turned to me and said, “And have you considered becoming confirmed too?”

‘Actually, I’m not baptised,’ I said blithely through a mouthful of Jaffa cake.

Really, if my head had pirouetted on my neck indicating the presence of the devil, the priest could not have looked more horrified. Looking back, I suspect the head teacher hadn’t wanted to make too much of the tiny number of non-Christian pupils so may well have omitted to notify the clergy of this black sheep skulking in the holy flock.

Luckily, the school didn’t hold it against me and I was given the part of Mary in the school’s Nativity play that year. My non-Jewish (but also non-Christian) mother’s boast? That her daughters were each the only Jewish (and thus more authentic) Mary ever at our primary schools.

Years later, when my sister’s daughter (only a quarter Jewish) also played Mary in her school nativity, I mentioned that it was something of a family tradition to my Jewish friend Thalia who had come with me to my sister’s Christmas party.

“I just don’t understand your family,” she said. “Are you Jewish or not?’”

I pointed to the half-eaten prawn vol-au-vent in her hand.

“Well…” I said, ‘It’s not always easy to be consistent, is it?’

Zelda Leon is half-Jewish by birth then did half a conversion course as an adult (half-measures in all things….) to affirm her Jewish status before a Rabbinical Board. She is a member of a Reform synagogue. Zelda Leon is a pseudonym.