It seems like a good moment to reflect on the Easter weekend, I suppose. Four days of holiday, tea, trips out, and chocolate-powered children. Not mine of course; I mean the collection of nieces and nephews that make up the sugar-loaded, hyperactive, indefatigable sextet of miniature power-rangers that I call the Niblings. More about them in a bit. Here's the whistlestop tour of the weekend:
Maundy Thursday
I was immensely tired on Thursday night. I dropped my piano on my foot, setting up for the Calcot worship night, and as I doubled-up in pain, my back joined in. I hobbled on and managed to mumble through a few songs, but by the time I got home I was ready to collapse.
Good Friday
Friday then was a bit more restful. Hot-cross buns and tea awaited us at my sister's house, along with a recycled conversation about why I haven't yet found a wife. For a bonus, we also went with the topic of my brother-in-law's grand plan to use his voluntary redundancy money to study theology, which was equally as awkward. In the end, the Niblings wanted to play Ninjas versus Uncle Matthew, a game which resulted in me lying in the grass, pretending to be dead.
Saturday
The day between Good Friday and Easter Sunday is the most profound, I think. It doesn't have a name, which somehow adds to its deep, glorious mystery. Between despair and triumph, between death and a life re-born, this dark day of silence marks the longing, the hope, the emptiness of waiting. I wanted to write a poem about it, but I ran out of words in the end.
Plus, we spent most of the day visiting Hampton Court Palace: home of Henry VIII, grand apartments of William and Mary and red-bricked-magnet for back-packed camera-happy tourists. It's a melancholy place. I learned a lot but it really did feel like the heart of Hampton Court Palace was always the people who kept court there - and they were, of course, missing. I found myself feeling rather sorry for every character I read about: Wolsey, Katherine of Aragon, the great king himself, Anne Boleyn, the terrified Catherine Howard. Later, the widower, William III, throwing back the great curtains and surveying his late wife's grand garden, stretching neatly down to the banks of the river.
Easter Sunday
We call it Resurrection Sunday where I come from. I really love this day - every creative part of me wants to burst into song, especially when the morning is awash with Spring-time sunshine and the air is buzzing with the hope of new life. I still felt a bit like that, even though, when I woke up, it was raining.
I decided to go with the rest of my family to the church that they attend*, rather than my own. I figured it was best to be with my family on such a day, and they were happy for me to be there. There are a lot of reasons why discussing church with my sisters and the Intrepids is awkward. I was half-expecting them to interrogate me about what I thought afterwards - a game of diplomacy I do not enjoy, and find grossly unhelpful for anybody. Thankfully, the Niblings were on-hand with ninja swords and guns made out of lego. I dutifully rolled over onto the carpet and went limp.
Easter Monday
After a lie-in, the Intrepids and I went off in search of bluebells on Greenham Common. Not five minutes after parking, checking the map and heading off down the leafy path into the woods, we'd gone off-road and were walking through brambles. Unbelievable. About half-an-hour later, we were almost hacking through the undergrowth, trying to get back to the path. I scrambled over logs, my Mum held bendy tree-branches back as she picked her way through, and my Dad commented on the Latin names of just about everything in sight.
My Mum and I had a wager about how long it would take him to mention the fact that you can't take a good photo of bluebells without losing the colour because of the UV light they give off. She won - hands down. Three minutes, twenty two seconds.
Well, that's pretty much it I guess. Work tomorrow - and with it the usual post-holiday kitchen-chit-chat. I'm steeling myself against it with my stock answers:
"Yes thanks, and yourself?"
"Yeah, still, it's a four-day week, this one, so it's not all bad."
"Really? You want to try rambling through the undergrowth with pensioners or pretending you've been caught by miniature ninjas."
Also, I need to reset my spreadsheet to count down to the next bank holiday. Brilliant.
*My oldest sister, her husband, their children and the Intrepids. My younger sister is in the Lake District, trying to convince her husband to buy her a dulux dog.
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