I confess... I wasn't really sick

I have a confession to make... I pulled a sickie on Monday.

Let me explain.

Last week I had a couple of playmates so I had a week's holiday.  They went home on Sunday and I was feeling a bit sorry for myself.  I was at a loose end, I was beat, incomplete, I felt sad and blue...

Like a Virgin.

No, not Like a Virgin, that's a Madonna song.

When I woke up on Monday, I didn't really feel like doing much.  I was lethargic and, when my human decided that she was going to work and she was taking me with her... I acted up a bit.  I slouched about, I pretended to be sick and pretended I could hardly lift my head from the carpet.

Even though she was clearly worried I kept the act up int he hope she'd send me home.

But she went one step further and booked me into the vet's.

Nightmare!

Last time I went to the vet he prodded me, poked me and squeezed my gentleman's area.  I wasn't having that again...

As my human pulled up outside the torture place I livened myself up.  I leapt from the car and dragged my human into the vet, put my front paws on the counter and generally was made a fuss of by the nurse.

However, to no avail, I was still prodded and injected, but then I got an attack of guilt... I saw the bill.

I've heard that sickies cost British business millions of days every year and billions of pounds.

Some businesses, though, allow their staff to have duvet days.

We all get low from time to time and duvet days allow us to take a day's holiday without having to book it in advance.  It comes off holiday entitlement and so won't count as a sick day... even though, in effect, that's what it is.

Ingenious.

I wish I was allowed duvet days and I could have avoided the guilt I feel for chucking a sickie.

It's not easy looking cute every day, you know.