Coronation Day has me busting out all over in a rash of boyhood guilt.

It stems from dawn of the second Elizabethan era with an egg-and-spoon race on Lew Dack’s buttercup-decked meadow in my mid-Norfolk village home of Beeston.

I cheated, thumb firmly pressed on egg for all but last few yards of the big charge for a shiny new sixpence. They cheered, I smiled  - and fell over deliberately in the sack race. That coin became a lead weight in my pocket for rest of the summer

I  just could not let go of the feeling I had won by foul means. My prize tanner glinted at me accusingly as I placed it alongside my Coronation Bible and mug presented in a lather of memorable ceremonials at my primary school.

“Do no sinful actions, speak no angry words” rang out the assembly anthem and I was tempted to take that first slice of advice rather personally. The Coronation fancy dress competition in the Nissen hut serving as our village hall on the old aerodrome could have been a panful affair had I not been so anxious to make amends for under-hand scheming on Lew Dack’s meadow.

I made a good jockey in my orange and purple silks and judges had to be impressed by  a high-pitched whinny, even-paced canter and delicate use of the whip. I was furlongs ahead of rest of the field when it came to living the part, right down to smacking my backside and calling “Giddyup, ole bewty!” when we were invited to parade.

I romped home third behind Snow White and Robin Hood. Jack, gripping an apology for a beanstalk made out of school milk bottle tops, and a grizzly bear who had wet himself while waiting to roar,  followed me on a lap of honour. There was no stewards’ inquiry.

Right, now for a smart gallop back to  a memorable homely enclosure at heart of the Thrifty Fifties, when “You’ve never had it” ruled well ahead of Harold MacMillan’s “You’ve never had it so good.”

There could be no rationing of the rebuilding spirit both in family and community. People put each other ahead of possessions as a sure way of avoiding too many disappointments.

It didn’t take me too long to get over the blows of missing out on the Festival of Britain and Olympic Games in Helsinki. Carter’s Buses of Litcham probably didn’t run to either.

The 1953 Coronation on Tuesday, June 2 delivered all its promises as we gathered after breakfast to salute birth of a new Elizabethan age and digest exciting news of the Conquest of Everest.

Some neighbours watched the Westminster  pomp and pageantry on television, that new-fangled contraption destined to change domestic existence beyond recall. We knew the best pictures  remained on the wireless. My dear old Nanna, who was blind, so decreed.

The going was damp in London, a weather report set to inspire what may well have been my cleverest joke so far in a burgeon career based on acting as silly as possible without inviting a hefty ding o’ the lug.

“Bound to be wet!” I announced with just enough mystery to arouse general curiosity and prompt inquiring glances.

“Says so in the National Anthem …...” Time to administer the crowning touch and claim an early toffee from the large tin bought to help us chew over this grand occasion. “Long to rain over us!” I warbled without any accompaniment beyond a pitiful stare from long-suffering Mum.

Even before the line had died on a silent reaction I realised it needed to be written down for full impact. That’s why it’s probably faring marginally better here than it did on the Coronation beat 70 years ago.

I turned that embarrassing example of disturbing the peace of the realm to useful advantage about three years later as grammar school history lessons tapped into a growing appetite for looking things up.

I discovered how other 20th century monarchs had to cope with less-than-regal weather on their big days.

George VI’s crowning on May 12, 1937, took place against a cool and cloudy backcloth with occasional showers. George V had a dull and chilly day on June 23, 1911, although the rain did hold off. Just fleeting flickers of sunlight on a cold day for Edward V11 on August 9, 1902.

It my be all too easy for social historians to dismiss formative years of my existence close to the Norfolk soil as soaked in harsh post-war austerity, crushed ambition and too much cod liver oil.

I prefer to cite cold rooms, hand-me-down clothes, tin baths and outside toilets as ideal character-forming opportunities to prepare for the next recession caused by greedy bankers, inept politicians and global self-harming.

Suspicions that we might have far more in common with our Royal Family than most loyal subjects  are prepared to admit were confirmed for me when the Duke of Edinburgh was showing a much-impressed overseas visitor around Buckingham Palace.

“Oh, this place isn’t ours” he announced as the compliments flowed.

 “It’s a tied cottage!”