I Hate Bank Holidays

It’s almost the bank holiday weekend here in the U.K., the last one of the year outside of Easter and Christmas, so I think it’s time I reveal something to you all. You see, the simple fact is that I fucking hate bank holidays.

For me it’s a reminder of many things. It’s a reminder of the work I used to do, because I knew that no matter where I worked it was always going to be a busy weekend for me. The only way a bank holiday weekend would turn into a slow weekend if you worked in a smaller retail establishment is if the fine and sunny weather turned into rain.

It’s also an unhappy reminder of what happened to me three years ago. The start of Cromer Carnival Week is a reminder of how the locum GP messed up and failed when diagnosing my illness. By the time the bank holiday weekend came around, things were taking a drastic turn for the worse. I spent most of that particular weekend in bed feeling like crap, only getting up to suggest to big brother that we should call the NHS 111 service, and to go to the NHS walk-in centre in North Walsham, where I was finally given some antibiotics.

By then it was too little too late. The antibiotics had little to no effect on my illness, mainly because it wasn’t a chest infection, it was pneumonia. But I wouldn’t find that out for another couple of weeks, after my fourth consultation, when the nurse practitioner gave me a thorough once over and booked me in for an x-ray at the hospital. The rest, as they say, is history.

But sadly, the story continues to this day.