A gargantuan excuse
I had a nightmare last night.
This is not at all unusual and as usual the nightmare involved being back working in RTE. It’s funny how the majority of night terrors still involve RTE?
Anyhows, this was a simple one. I dreamt I had to return to work tomorrow and I blame this entirely on the meeja who are now endlessly waffling on about “easing the lockdown”.
The bad part of the dream wasn’t so much about the return to work though. In this imaginary landscape that aspect didn’t seem so bad [which was strange and quite unusual].
No. The nightmare aspect was the sudden realisation that I would have to come up with some really plausible excuse as to why I hadn’t turned up for work in the previous twenty years.
I’m damned good at excuses, but I’m not that good.
At a place where I worked years ago was a young lad who was a compulsive liar, you could tell when he was lying because his lips moved. On one occasion he had his young (under age) girlfriend believing that his parents home (he lived with them) was actually his, and that his parents paid him rent. One day he rang in sick with the excuse that he had tripped and fallen down the stairs, until one of us spoke up and said that he lived in a bungalow. Over the 4 years that I worked there, this lad's father died 5 times and was cured of cancer. I kid you not. Now if he could get away with it, so could you.
His name was McFail (hehe) and one day he thought it would be clever to tell everyone at work that his name meant 'son of god'. He got some really funny remarks from the other guys concerning God driving a Vauxhall Nova. But, it was March, and when he told me I said yes, I believe you. And in keeping with tradition, at dinner time I'm going to crucify you. And so it came to pass, some banding tape and a large cross welded up from box section.
You could point out that when you were being paid not to be there, you considered turning up as your sign of being on strike.
We once had a lad 'working' with us on placement from college. I knew he was a wrong 'un the moment I clapped eyes on him. Not because of my special superpowers, just because I've been around the block a few times and I'm not actually retarded. My colleagues were not best pleased with me for sharing my suspicions: I was being 'judgemental', which is a Very Bad Thing. The arrival of his mates would cause him to remember an urgent dental or medical appointment he had to leave early for, and still the suicidally gullible eejits I worked with never batted an eyelid. Then one day he turned up with a very amateurishly bandaged wrist claiming to have been victim of a 'rascalist' attack (he was of the poor benighted pork-avoiding community) and enjoyed much clucking sympathy. Then one older woman, who volunteered with the St John's Ambulance Brigade, insisted – against his vehement objections – to dress his ' wound' properly. She removed the bandage to reveal … yes, you've guessed, a completely uninjured wrist. The lying little shit – it is practically congenital in some cases.
If you are going to lie, make it as near the truth as possible. It's much harder to get caught out and makes the excuse easier to remember.
I can't tell you how many nightmares I've had about having been recalled by the Navy to report aboard my old boat (long since turned into razor blades). The kicker was showing up at my current age, in a dirty work uniform ("dungarees"), unshaven face, without being able to call the wife to tell her where I am. There was also a vicious rumor that the boat was putting to sea shortly with no return date. The dreams finally stopped occurring about 6 months ago. I think it's a sign my mind finally starting to go.