I’ve got four days off for Easter, and the only eastery thing about it is the giant Dairy Milk egg that’s been staring me down since Friday. It feels strange having a holiday because it doesn’t really mean anything to me, apart from ‘Easter Parade’, charity appeals on TV and people everywhere. Last year’s set of Easter shots were about as into it as I ever got, barring egg hunts, yellow paint and clay hens at primary school. Sometimes I wonder why I don’t get excited by it all, because everyone else seems to. Even as I write this I can hear the whoops of merry revellers in the street, and call me a killjoy but I can’t quite see why.
