…that for May Day read Mayday.
So April is the cruellest month, right: memory and desire, dull roots, assault on the old dried tubers? Wrong, try May and its glut of opportunities to suffer that rite of passage that is the lone bank holiday.

One’s colleagues were alerted to the fact that one’s eye was not entirely on the spring break ball by having to inform you of the advent of Easter back on Maundy Thursday. “Whadda you mean, there’s no work tomorrow? Oh, right, so that’s where all the breeders are.” For, while one cannot fail to notice the approach of Christmas, sans school holidays to navigate by, or a partner to strategise with, these lesser celebrations have a habit of appearing by stealth, the thieves in the night of national festivities.

Moreover, the facilitating state of flux that typically applies to one’s social calendar will no longer yield results. Two texts in, it will become evident that everyone apart from you will be spending the weekend in borrowed towelling in Devon/Dorset/the Cotswolds, heading off two-by-two in the manner of Noah’s Ark.

Those more seasoned in the singles game will be “on a yoga weekend” or “clubbing in Ibiza”. You, meanwhile, will find yourself in your usual quarters with no plans, no food in the fridge, and even the Samaritans not really in the mood to play ball.

Correct etiquette is to assert blithely, “Oh, I’ll probably go to an art gallery or something.” Translation: “I will be propped in bed with the heating turned up, watching old episodes of Marple and sitting the f***** out.”

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