THE PUBLIC HOLIDAY
WE REALLY NEED
four writers ponder the things they want from a day off.
By
Caro
Cooper
Fuck you, fuck work, fuck pants,
fuck polite, fuck coffee (no, I take
that back), fuck brushing my
teeth (OK, no, not that either –
but screw everything else).
I was raised like so many other
girls in the ’80s: to be nice, quiet,
polite. Even though age has worn
me down, I still carry the burden
of it all. I say, “Thanks, thank
you,” to everyone – really, just
like that. Someone holds a door
open for me and I hinge at the hips
in supplication as I squeak out,
“Thanks, thank you.” Two thanks
to make sure they really hear my
gratitude. I laugh awkwardly
when people insult me, then
apologise for my inadequacies.
I’m a frilly knickerbocker-
wearing jellyfish that never
wants to upset the metaphorical
universal apple cart. Or do I?
Iran has a public holiday to
celebrate nuclear weaponry;
Victoria takes a day off to celebrate
the beating of horses pumped
with more steroids than a UFC
urinal; South Korea celebrates the
alphabet; and Turkmenistan takes
a day to marvel at their melons,
not metaphorical. All solid reasons
to take a day off, but they’re not
what I want. The day I want, the
day I need, is a Fuck All This Day- a national holiday to flip the
bird, toss the forks and pump your
fists at politeness; at the mundane
that drives us into the ground; at
unpaid bills and passive-aggressive
acquaintances; at gym instructors
who comment on how long it’s
been since they’ve seen you; and
at the overwhelming pressure to
get out there and make something
of yourself. Fuck. All. That.
For one glorious national day, you
can unshackle yourself from the
societal conventions that stop
you urinating in your seat at a
restaurant when you really need to
pee but don’t want to stop eating,
especially when you know your
friends will see your momentary
absence as a chance to scrape your
plate clean. It’s saying no when
someone asks you to help them
move house, when all you want
to do is google “botox worst case
scenario” and create an alphabetical
list of your physical flaws.I’ll use the day to order a single
coffee and sit in a café typing
for three hours, taking up a full
communal table. I won’t race
through my drink and scurry out
when the waiter starts lurking.
I won’t shrink and pack my things,only to have to type in a dark alley
among the rats and skeletons of
writers before me who also couldn’t
handle more than one coffee in a day
without their anxiety causing them
to chew their own foot off, and who
couldn’t afford $20 toast with micro-
herbs. On this day, I would plant my
pencil in that goddamn table and
claim it, ignoring the waiter passive-
aggressively wiping the surface
around me. Keep on wiping, buddy.Don’t like swearing? There are a
million ways to turn your back on
the world without lowering yourself
to my level. And that’s part of the
day – doing it how you want, doing
what you want. Go naked from dusk
till dawn; throw your phone in the
toilet (intentionally this time); tell
your friend you can’t attend her art
opening because her work makes you
question the value of arts funding;
and put your work laptop through
the paper shredder. You can tell
people you’re not interested in their
children, and no, you don’t want
to hold the baby, because really,
you’d rather stay in bed holding
the genitals of the person you
picked up the night before (or your
own if your plans fall through).How freeing and refreshing to get
it all off our chests for just one
day – one sweet 24-hour period
of honesty and freedom, before
we wake again to another year
of keeping it all on the inside.writers’ piece