Bank Holidays - My Arse!

It appears that my hatred of Bank Holidays, particularly late summer ones, is not as commonplace as I had thought. I quite like that. I never was one to run with the crowd.

It's not the actual days off that I object to, it's rather nice to have a lay-in without the Snooze button interrupting every 5 minutes, for at least an hour, as happens most work mornings. It's the sheer bloody loneliness of the whole thing.

Jack's past the age where he will accompany me, uncomplaining, to a National Trust property or on a walk through the Dales. Actually, he's never done it without complaining but he was small enough to wrestle into the car before. Now he's off writing songs with his mates, the next Big Thing ( yeah, right!) and playing in all-night RISK tournaments ( ok - I'm pissed that I wasn't included in that) only calling back home for fuel or cash.

There's invariably a wedding to go to - me and 'Plus 1'. Why do they put that? Plus 1? If they are close enough friends, they know I do not have a significant other, and that I am sufficiently confident to walk into a roomful of strangers on my own ( alright, I have started getting a bit nervous about that actually, but I haven't bloody well told anybody so as far as they know I don't have a problem with it). The most likely person I'd take would be Jack, who would have been invited by name if they were the sort of friends that he'd want to see. Weddings are bad enough as it is when you know the couple. I can't think of anyone I loathe enough to drag along as my pretend partner. So I rarely go.

I avoid the garden centres and shopping outlets -too many dysfunctional families and majorette troupes - restricting my retail exposure to a quick nip into Tesco for a case of Sauvignon Blanc and some olives ( I bought Bran Flakes this weekend instead).

So today, I decided to give the world a break from my sullen mug and after spending the morning lazily reading the remains of yesterday's paper, I ran a deep bubble bath, lit a scented candle ( one of the posh ones I've been saving for a special assignation), covered my scowling complexion in the last of my expensive Space NK shopping sorties, tuned the radio to Classic Gold, placed the latest Gardeners World magazine within easy reach for when my book ran out and prepared for a long, relaxing soak. Bliss. For 5 minutes.

The phone rang. I tried to ignore it. I'm naturally too nosey and egocentric to leave phones unanswered. If someone wants to speak to me it must be important, to them at least, and I want to know why that is. It doesn't quite explain why I feel compelled to pick up other people's phones, often in offices down the corridor from me, but that's beside the point.

I jumped out of the bath, pausing only to grab a towel, a large one, and consciously wiped my feet on the mat. As I dived out of the bathroom, it occurred to me that I should be careful as I had polished the stairs, the shiny wooden ones, this weekend and my feet were very wet. I was careful. That's probably why I managed to reach step 3 before I slipped and noisily bounced down the remaining 9.

It could have been so much worse. I was naked, soapy, face caked in white clay, holding a book about vampires. Not how I would hope to meet any passing paramedics.

Fortunately, I didn't break anything, not even the spindles, which was a miracle when you see the bruises on my arm which look like a test cricket ball embedded in my arm, same colour, slightly rough ridge, everything. But I think it might be some time before I'm sitting comfortably.