Typical. Just as I think I'm managing my finances responsibly for the first time in years, I lose a day's wages by having to call in sick with caner's flu.
This is an affliction caused by the unintended lowering of the body's self-defence mechanism by the excessive intake of alcohol on a Saturday night. It is not a hangover, as such - more the body's way of saying that it could have fought off bugs and viruses or whatever if only it wasn't having to combat a full scale invasion from Colonel Smirnoff. As this is an unitended consequence of binge drinking, and there is no way of determining whether I would have fallen ill had I not been on the lash until 7am on Sunday, the victim is spared some of the self loathing that inevitably comes from having to ring in sick because you haven't managed to grow up yet.
I wouldn't normally care about being ill, but I'm paid by the hour and so this is a dent in the wallet. I'll just have to make a few of the hours in the remaining four days.
Methinks this is a 24/48 hour thang which is just the body's way of saying it needs a bit of rest and recuperation. I remember feeling tired on Saturday night and the sensible voice in my head telling me to get some sleep rather than go out. In my head this person has a very serious, critical almost condescending voice.
"There isn't some kind of rule, Matt, that says you have to go out every Saturday night. It is ok to be normal and get some sleep. You'll feel great on Monday for the rest."
No sooner has Mr Sensible said his bit, than into the room walks my psychological equivalent of Bez...
"You can't stop in on a Saturday just because it might make the team fucking meeting on Monday a bit more tolerable."
Then in my head I can hear the music at the club, see the talent on the dancefloor, and before you know it I'm getting ready to go out. The fact I can walk to all the decent clubs hardly acts as much of a disincentive either.
And now I'm spending my Monday afternoon drinking soup and watching DVDs.
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