Everyone remembers their first time. I have Yom Kippur to thank for mine

But as Yom Kippur is all about atoning and confessing, there is one other aspect that makes this day memorable. For, and forgive me Lord, it led to the loss of my virginity – talk about breaking a fast!

Many of us went to single-sex (and, let’s face it, sex-starved) schools and both Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur turned into one big dating event during those acne-ridden, bad haircut, teenage years

I met a girl at one of these mass gatherings who would, a few days later, not so much steal my innocence but let me happily give it away freely with no refund should satisfaction not be guaranteed. And no, I wouldn’t dream of naming her not least because there’s a chance she may read this and recoil in horror at those five minutes of pleasure 45 years ago.

It all started in the park. As usual, we had left the local schools half empty in order to spend the obligatory few minutes at shul and then off to the boating lake where we would chat, flirt, smoke and argue with other teenagers from all four corners of the London Borough of Redbridge, where it was estimated at the time, one in five of the 250,000 population was Jewish. Estimates vary and as is traditional among Jews, may have been largely exaggerated but, put in this way – there were an awful lot of us.

It was also a chance to meet girls way before the days of swiping left or right. Many of us went to single-sex (and, let’s face it, sex-starved) schools and both Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur turned into one big dating event during those acne-ridden, bad haircut, teenage years.

And I did meet a girl. She was a friend of a friend and we chatted and flirted and joked, me nervously and she with far more confidence. Nothing happened that day, I mean it was Yom Kippur after all and no one wants to be smited.

A few days later we met up by chance as we were walking home from our respective schools. This will sound like a cheesy 60s pop song but I offered to carry her books home and, in the words of Herman’s Hermits, “I walked her home and she held my hand” (lyrics by Carole King and Gerry Goffin – well, let’s keep this Jewish, eh?)

I’m not going to go into too much detail but, as the saying goes, one thing led to another. A couple of days later, while my parents were away, she came round and the deed was done. We never saw each other again.

Though it was a major rites of passage, I didn’t tell anyone apart from a single, female friend. I thought it was crass to broadcast – I think after 45 years, two marriages, three children and a vasectomy, I can safely talk about it now. The Odeon has gone – shamefully demolished to build an ugly block of flats. There aren’t many Jews left in Redbridge. And while we used to meet up on Yom Kippur and talk about Spurs, girls and music, the conversations this year are more likely to be around far more serious subjects – we all know what they are.

So there it is, Yom Kippur and the loss of innocence, which sounds like a Jewish Harry Potter rip-off. I wish you well over the fast and, if you’re lucky, it turns out to be as good as that one 45 years ago.