When I was a child, Good Friday was my favourite day of the year.
It was deeply melancholic. A time to ponder death, sacrifice, forgiveness. All the big stuff.
And days like that, steeped as they are in deeper meaning, are rare when you’re an Anglo-Australian born into an atheist household.
Back then in country Victoria (and I’m old enough to start sentences with ”almost half a century ago”), the shops and pubs were shut. There was no cheering for your footy team. No treasure hunts for sparkly, foiled eggs at the local park (or at Kirribilli House, I imagine). No cheery ”Happy Easter” ...