Be careful what you wish for on National Sickie Day

How are you feeling? A little feeble after that long old January? Perhaps you have a bit of a sniffle; not enough to say you’re properly ill, but the sort that leaves you ever so slightly below par.

Normally you might power on through. But wait. This Monday it’s national throw a sickie day, the day in the year when people are statistically most likely to call in with a wan or croaky voice and a sob story about a migraine or a dicky tummy. So, come on, this is your chance to give yourself a break and sack it all off for the next few hours: ring your boss, tell them your piles are playing up, and slide back under the eiderdown. You probably deserve it. And the boss will obviously never guess, will they…?

If you’re a child, of course, it’s a different story. There’s no distant manager to call, no doctor’s note to forge; you simply need to convince the parental units that you’re at death’s door. And a hot flannel or some vigorous eye-rubbing may be enough to get the nod, even if you have to get up for breakfast just to check that you’re really not well enough for a day at school.

Some parents are total pushovers of course. I know more than a few who will offer their darlings a duvet day just because they’re a bit weary. Oddly, it’s sometimes the same people who return their kid to school the day after they were spewing their guts up. “Don’t worry, we think it was just food poisoning!”

In our house, the general rule of thumb is that there are three justifications for missing class: vomit, diarrhoea, or a proper temperature. A break or sprain might need a trip to urgent care, but then straight back to lessons.

Last week, however, we got conned. My son had been grotty the previous day, obviously bunged up and miserable. When I went into his room to wake him, he seemed even stuffier. “I’ve got a headache,” he said, hoarsely. My wife and I consulted, loathe to break the rule that colds aren’t a reason to stay home. The fact that he and his classmates were due to have a swimming lesson in the neighbouring town eventually swayed us, however, and we duly told him to go back to bed and get some rest.

That lasted about half an hour, when sleep proved elusive and boredom set in. I suggested an audiobook, then a bit of reading, which got him through to nearly 10am. Then he said he felt well enough to get up and go downstairs, for a bit of quiet time on the sofa – with Pingu on the telly for company.

Lunchtime finally came round, and he demanded pizza wraps. As I plodded back to my desk afterwards, he asked if he could have a little bit of tablet time; I said 20 minutes. By 3.30pm, he was playing football games on the Xbox, shouting at the ref; and I had given up, determined only not to be fooled again. We’ll see…

As for me, I haven’t pulled a sickie since 1992. On that fateful day, my younger brother seemed genuinely quite unwell. His day off had been in the bag since the night before, when he’d been confined to an early bed, and I was not happy about it at all. So, when I woke in the morning, I husked up the old voice a little, winced when swallowing, and eventually managed to convince my mum that I too was ill, and certainly not well enough for the rigours of first period rugby. Result!

But sometimes pudding-headed children get their just desserts. Like my son the other day, my cheeky sickie quickly proved dull. I wandered into my brother’s room, where he lay looking irritatingly poorly on his bed. He was not the answer to my boredom, so instead I went to pick up a book that I thought I might take to read. But as I moved my hand towards it, I scraped my finger down the side of his desk, just where a shard of wood lay in wait. It slid under my nail, snapping off as my momentum shifted.

I yelped in agony, as I looked at the enormous splinter that lay beneath the nail of my ring finger. “Mum,” I shouted, “I think I need a doctor!”

At the GP’s surgery, a strong-armed nurse tried to prise the wood out with a pin, then thought she might try to cut the nail off around it. That pain was far worse than the splinter, but thankfully she stopped when I looked as if I was about to faint. In the end, I returned home slathered in antiseptic and a bandage, having been told I would just have to wait until it grew out. I’m sure my brother looked perkier.

For three months I lived with the evidence of my dishonesty lodged beneath my fingernail, a reminder that pulling a sickie can lead to a lot more pain than you expect.