In the old days, when I was a child without a bank account, it was invariably a weekend of incessant rain, unless my father was forced to take us out in the old Ford V8 Pilot, when we would spend almost the entire day in a lay-by in the sweltering heat, trying not to upset him further by talking, as he struggled to fix a burst radiator-pipe with Elastoplast and a spanner. We would all be stuffed into the back of the car, gagging on the smell of the hot leather upholstery, as thousands of other holiday-makers with new cars swept past, making the car gently rock in their wake. Occasionally, his head would appear - swathed in steam - at the side of the huge bonnet, as he took a couple of seconds off to tell us all to SHUT UP. After the repairs were done as best he could, it would be time to turn around and drive home again, never having seen the sea, let alone paddle in it.
We always spent one week in Brighton though, where his sister lived, and I would spend the entire time between the machines on the Grand Pier, and watching the Mods and Rockers fighting on the beach below, with always one visit to the Prince Regent's Pavilion on the other side of town.
These days, banks don't really take holidays. They still work whilst you are asleep - the meters ticking over nicely, clocking up huge interest on overdrafts and tiny percentages on savings. It was almost as if the populace were told that - unless you were an animal farmer - there was no point in working when the banks were not manned, or the banks had decided that you need a day off for the sake of productivity.
Not being a church-going God-botherer, I really don't miss all those dead sundays with closed shops, pubs and cinemas. They were so depressing. On the negative side, now that everyone owns at least one automobile, the traditional August Bank Holiday traffic cues are even worse than they used to be, so it's nice to be able to decide for myself when I am going to take a holiday, without some gnome from Gringott's telling me when I can or can't.