Suzanne Harrington: Every day is like a bank holiday these days

It’s Easter Monday — hooray! Day off! More chocolate! Except now every day is a bank holiday, like that nightmarish Wizzard song about wishing it could be Christmas every day. A surreal bank holiday, our neighbourhoods an archipelago of comfy open prisons with Netflix, as we remain shipwrecked on our individual domestic islands, Robinson Crusoe households linked by anxiety, camaraderie and carbs.

My dad is 81 on Tuesday, and the nearest I can get to him is this column — Happy birthday, Dad! — because he’s cocooning in Cork and I’m locked down in Brighton. He’s in better shape than Boris Johnson, that’s for sure.