They come and go. They come and go.
Days are the shortest true measurement of the time that is passing. A day takes you from waking to sleeping. From dusk until dawn. It has all the hours and minutes in it to fill your world. Indeed, the world can turn on a day. And yet we wish them away.
I can recall the day that Elvis died. My mother cried out in pain. Anybody would have thought that her own father had died, but he had died a long time before. And only a tear was shed on the telegram.
We have our days like birthdays, wedding and funerals. We have moon-landings, VE days, and graduations. We move from Monday to Friday and have weekends to separate the weeks. We have bank holidays in which our pent up need for relaxation and enjoyment crowds itself out and means that the day is too short.
We had a Sunday, when time stood still, when shops were closed, when beer was only drunk between certain hours, when no work or toil was attempted. And then, because of the dullness of the day, we made it like any other day, but a little more frenetic as the next day was Monday and the start of the working week.