As I gaze towards my metaphorical horizon I see a cluster of bank holidays. Okay, so it’s only two but after the four day Easter fiasco (yes it was hot, yes there was chocolate, both leave me… cold) it feels like a bundle of the buggers.
When I was young and in relentless 9am-6:30pm full-time employment and my time was somebody else’s money, I fell upon bank holidays like mother’s milk. I was over-worked in a different way. These days, now that I – like many of you – am my own master, I am working to capacity to the point where FOUR bank holidays within a month properly unnerves me.
Ooh, rosé in the sun. Not me. Yay, long walks. Ugh. Woohoo, flights. Bad for my anxiety levels, bank account and the planet. Call me the angel of death but bank holidays these days mean little more than one long panic about how I’m going to get everything done. So they ruin the week before because of frenzied preparation and ‘working ahead’ and then they ruin the week ‘of’ because of not enough hours in not enough days.
And then my panic swells to fit the space and time; mutates and evolves from ‘Can I get this done?’ to ‘Can I get anything done? Am I up to this? Can I even cope?’
So you can keep your bonus days. For some, bank holidays add to the joy of early summer. For folk like me, they deliver nothing good. Nothing restful. Nothing happy. Just more juice to stew in which, apart from anything else, is emotionally and physically sweaty. If routine is part of the glue that binds you together, just know that some of us share the bank holidays blues. We just don’t talk about it much because everyone else seems so fucking thrilled about the situation.