Thank god for four-day weekends. I love my job but it is wonderful to have so many days free, to be able to sleep in and stay up late.
On Friday I drove to my mum’s house (my first time driving alone on a motorway) which was freeing and wonderful. I felt pleased and frankly quite smug as I drove past all the places the Oxford Tube stops; I remembered the impatience of that journey, the longing for the freedom of a car, of my own means. And I drove on by.
Friday was an idyllic day with my sister and her family. I played with the children, watched their TV shows, helped them get ready for bed. My nephew was especially sweet and affectionate and it was hard to leave.
A big lunch out on Saturday allowed both my parents to see and get a lift in my new car, and I felt a new sense of maturity and independence. I spent a lazy afternoon with my sister and little niece at the shops, and felt contented. And the next day I drove up to Bucks to to my partner’s mum’s house for another big family lunch, this time with his family, which was so, so lovely. I felt accepted and ‘part of the fold’. Tea and the boat race followed, in turn followed by several G&Ts. I went to bed at one; everyone else crawled upstairs at six in the morning. Maybe I am getting old.
Bank holiday Mondays are funny. It is like a Sunday, because you have work tomorrow, but it is somehow more relaxed because you know you only have a four-day work week ahead, and it feels like some kind of special day because no one is at work – the whole country is sipping tea and finishing Easter eggs (in this instance!) and it is a ‘day off’ in many ways. It is not a day for responsibilities. It is a day for nothing, and freedom, and rest. It is a day for jersey dresses, big jumpers, endless cups of tea, messy hair, and here at least, hangovers. Catching up on TV and watching movies. Wishing every house had a dog and looking out at the weird weather. Sun, rain, wind, storm. Cosy, closed happiness. Thank god for four-day weekends.