All the Sundays

In all my extensive years on the planet I still find bank holiday weekends really hard to get my head around. Quite often it’s like having four Sundays in a row, which in my experience is not the best thing, due to the fact that having grown up in the Seventies I have an unreasoning fear of dying of actual boredom on a Sunday. It culminates in a strangely Pavlovian reaction if I hear the theme tune of either a) the now defunct Money Programme or b) Songs of Praise. Mostly I curl up in a ball, weeping.

Today actually is Sunday, Easter Sunday to be precise.

I would wish you Happy Easter except that Jason has spent all weekend ill with some kind of Norovirus, the children fought solidly all the way through their Easter Egg hunt this morning until I was moved to raise my voice to hair raising levels of rage and threaten to ban all chocolate for the rest of the day, and I have actually lost the will to live now.

Also, what gives with Easter anyway? It’s just a weird, hybrid, alien celebration that posits the idea that Jesus dies on a different day and date every year, surrounded by chocolate rabbits which is not really at all a bolt on from an earlier pagan festival about shagging in springtime, and actually it’s all to do with the phases of the moon.


Also, there is a storm with my name on it bearing down on us, which may well mean that my pre-birthday trip to the Malvern show ground tomorrow, to buy myself a birthday present will be cancelled due to 40 mile an hour winds and rain.

This will mean another Sunday, and I’ve had three already.

It may be time to break into my secret supply of Mini Eggs.

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