So yeah, still haven’t been able to summon the courage…

After Friday night’s debacle at the lock-in, royally humiliating myself in front of busty admin Kate and her pals, I decided to skip work on Monday. Ditto Tuesday (just to appear convincingly sick, you see). Now it’s Wednesday morning, 10:15am, and I’m in my pants, on my floor, shoveling great handfuls of dry Co-Op cereal straight out of the box into my unshaven gob, watching that posh British cycling girl doing her thing at the Olympics.

And you know what? I think I’m onto something.

My friend Poppy seems to find the whole not-working thing a big stress. The lack of reliable income. The distorted sense of time and mangled body clock. Declining standards of personal hygiene. The opprobrium of one’s friends and family.

I for one can’t get enough of it.

Consider; I only phoned in on Monday morning (brilliantly Mongy Steve, the IT monkey, picked up, so I wasn’t given a hard time), and have been riding my luck ever since, not contacting them in the slightest. Sure, I have to be careful logging onto Facebook (“Danny is feeling rough [updated Saturday]” remains my status, annoyingly), and I am more than a touch curious as to when (indeed, if) my boss will notice my absence and dig my mobile number out of my (purely imagined, I’ve often speculated) personnel file.

But meh and double meh to such concerns. Sue Barker’s just announced an extended lunchtime highlights show from the women’s 800m backstroke, the kettle’s boiled and I’ve just this second spied an almost-full pouch of Golden Virginia fallen down the back of my armchair.

Not working = the way forward…

Danny