Bank holiday weekends are like pornography without the sex.
Civil wars in small South American countries, Helen Vendler reviews of new Seamus Heaney books, people walking all the way through large public buildings behind you, resulting in you holding every door open for them with a little jokey comment at the end before you're finally free: none of these approaches the evil that is a bank holiday weekend.
Alan Bennett has coined a phrase for the kind of family who used to drive to the seaside on bank holidays and sit in their poky little Austin in the carpark, with the windows rolled up, and read the Daily Express. I might even have gone and looked it up except there's a bank holiday weekend on its way and my vital organs are standing on a motorway flyover bridge threatening to jump off.
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