A cold Good Friday

Spare a thought for the campers and holidaymakers who have been driven by some compelling urge to spend time in the great outdoors this Easter weekend. I hope they have their woolly hats on. I haven't even gone in to the garden yet.

There was nothing good about Good Friday this year. We had hail stones the size of frozen peas that carpeted the freshly laid frog spawn on the pond.

I've always wondered about why Good Friday is so-called when it commemorates such a tragic event in Christ's crucifixion. There doesn't seem to be a definitive explanation. It goes by other names in other countries. The Germans call it mourning Friday, The Spanish, Holy Friday, The Norwegians, Long Friday and the Ethiopians, rather sensibly, Friday of the Crucifixion.

Some believe it has something to do with God's Friday, just as the term, goodbye, is a shortening of God-be-with-you. Others say it might be because an archaic meaning of good is close to that of the word "holy." Another, possibly fitting explanation, is that, although the day was not one that Jesus would want to dwell on much, it was good for the rest of us because it meant that we were saved.

I've always had a personal interest in Good Friday since it was the day I was born. But my birthday of April 19 has never fallen again on the day and, as far as I know, is unlikely to do so before 2019 when I will be 62. Easter will be late that year, the world should have warmed up a bit more, so the weather could be just right for a party. That's good enough for me.