A few weeks ago that it dawned on me that waking up in the morning and feeling too grotty for work is pointless before a cup of coffee or tea, and probably a shower, to wake up. This week, with the sudden appearance of heat and sun necessitating a wardrobe shift, I remembered a day from years ago.
It was this time of year and it suddenly got hot. I didn't want to wear black opaque tights to work but my legs had been neglected too long for short skirt and bare legs, so I rang in sick with 'slight migraine' and booked myself a waxing at the salon. Whoever took my call mentioned that my manager 'Dave' was unexpectedly working at home.
At the time, I lived on a road just to the East of Streatham High Road near St Leonard's Junction; Dave lived on a road just to the West of Streatham High Road near St Leonard's Junction. Knowing Dave, I suspected he would find himself a pub with a beer garden to spend the day.
I went to the beauty salon, got my legs done, and was wandering back up the High Road past the dry-cleaner's, and thought 'I really must pick up that suit I left there and I've lost the ticket for', so I went in and explained the situation. They said I had to sign the book of lost tickets. Trained and paid to be nosey, I perused the names above mine. The entry immediately above mine was 'Dave Manager'. Ten minutes previously.
I thought that was a lucky escape, but a few months later I was off sick and went into Croydon. As I walked past a pub, who should fall out of it but Dave my manager. We greeted each other cheerily, but I spent an uncomfortable weekend, knowing that I had called in sick and had been spotted in Croydon by my manager. On the Monday I nonchalantly commented at work: "I wonder if Dave's reviewed my file yet..." to which a colleague replied "I doubt it, he was off sick on Friday."
