Three Day Weekend: Activated  ~ A Love Letter to Bank Holidays 

We’ve obviously gone all F. Scott Fitzgerald on you and penned a modern-day love letter for the occasion...

The weather forecast has you in a chokehold, the Girls’ WhatsApp group is abuzz with chaotic mentions of prosexy and sunshine and you’ve fully accepted that your bank holiday weekend will burn you in many, many ways. The bank? We don’t know her. 

Grab a friend (or a friend of a friend) with a Soho House membership and your floatiest, waft-worthy gingham dress for crying out loud, the August bank holiday is finally here. And we’ve obviously gone all F. Scott Fitzgerald on you and penned a modern-day love letter for the occasion. If it doesn’t feel like McDonald’s and BeReal, we don’t want it. 

Lay-ins. Day drinks. Peaking too early. Sunburnt shoulders. Do you want me to do your back? Booking beer gardens. Looks a bit overcast. Last-minute road trips. Carefree. Arms flung around necks. Bellowing ‘I love yous’. Immaculate outfit vibes. Making a 5L jug of Pimm’s. Blue Doritos and dip. Eating out. Truffle fries. Live music drifting through the streets. Group pic everyone! All the seasons in one weekend? Yeah, sounds like a British bank holiday. Seventeen spenny brunches later and not one of them will you remember. Wait, was that rain? *puts hand out to feel* Panic buying a paddling pool, just in case. Fry ups with all the trimmings. Does anyone have a portable speaker? Picnic in the park. Cider? May as well. Ransacking Tesco of all its tinnies. And its umbrellas. Oh, quick my BeReal’s going off. Pringles, Pringles everywhere. Impromptu bbqs. Cracking playlists. Balmy beach days. The wine fuzzies. Break My Soul on repeat. Potato salad with every meal. Obligatory family walks. Cleaning the whole house so you’ve got something to show for the weekend. Floaty dresses. Ripping into a pack of cocktail sausages. Getting all deep with your besties. Might even slop wine all over them a little bit. Sunday rolls into a sleepy Monday.Snoozing in the garden. The stories recounted over multiple croaky voice notes. The lost property pile at someone’s house. A shoe. A vape. A bracelet. Inky stamp stains on wrists. McDonald’s? Obviously.