Back when I was a manager, I used to get very frustrated whenever one of my minions phoned in sick. Mainly because we were quite a small team, and so the absence of any one person was keenly felt by the remainder; but also because I was naturally quite suspicious as to just how sick they really were. Migraine? Pah. You’ve got a headache, or more likely, a hangover. Take some paracetamol and get your arse in. ‘Flu?! You can’t phone in sick if you’ve got ‘flu, because you can’t even get out of bed if you’ve got ‘flu. You’ve got a cold, or more likely, you’re just a lazy twunt. Have a cough sweet and get your arse in.
Eventually my mild distrust became more of a demented paranoia; my staff were always lying to me about everything, none of them could be trusted, and there was actually no such thing as illness.
Which made things very confusing for me when I got ill (as scarce an occurrence as this was). I decided in the end that all this ‘ill’ business was every bit as fictitious as I suspected, and I was merely experiencing symptoms of illness.
Much as I am now, a situation probably not helped much by my decision to attend a gig by the ever-splendid Taint at The Croft last night.
Terry was supposed to be joining us, but true to form he flaked out at the last moment. This left just The Boy and I. Sam didn’t fancy taking Terry’s place, but was kind enough to give us a lift down there. We arrived at about quarter past eight, only to discover that Taint were the only band playing, and that wouldn’t be happening until quarter past ten; leaving us nothing to do for the next two hours apart from slouch about on the big comfy sofas in the front bar and get very drunk.
Taint were of course excellent; but I’ve written about them before, and feel no need to repeat myself here. After a solid hour of ‘rocking out’, The Boy and I took a short wander up the road to the Cat and Wheel, where Dozer happened to be doing his Big Friendly Doorman bit. More booze happened, and then the now near legendary Sam came to pick us all up and take us home. What a hero. The Boy was utterly broken, but still managed to make it as far as her bed; I, on the other hand, rather predictably passed out on the sofa, and so didn’t officially get to bed until 5:30 am. Hooray for me.
The other possible cause of my “You know how other people feel when they think they’re ill? That’s how I feel” thing is the relentlessness of my weekly schedule at the moment. On Monday I’m in school for six hours, the rest of the day given over to homework and the like; on Tuesday and Thursday I’m in for eleven hours; I work at the big gay department store for ten hours every Friday and Saturday; and on Wednesdays and Sundays, I am a slave to my Chaos Dragon (not a euphemism for masturbation, I swear).
I thought I’d have this sucker finished a week ago, but the sheer size of the thing is making me wonder if I’ll even have it finished in time for the tournament. The fact that it’s taking so long means that I have no chance of painting the other bits and pieces I was planning to take, and so I’ve had to change my army list; the second unit of brilliant but unpredictable Beastmen have given way to an already painted but predictably rubbish unit of Ogres…
I know you don’t really care about any of this, but that really is all my life consists of at the moment.
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