Dreaming of a better place

"You're a slave to this job", said My Lift to Work, sometime on Monday morning. I was standing outside her house in the cold, the first rays of sunshine fighting through the large black cloud over Willesden Green. Unless I heard otherwise, I assumed I should go into work. After all, 95% of towns in Hertfordshire haven't been levelled by a massive explosion.

I was half a mile out of Borehamwood when Manager called.
"Didn't you get my message?"
"What message?", the resignation rising in my voice.
"You're not supposed to come in. Local staff only today."
She's not heard me swear before.

Against all advice, I also came in today, despite the continuous sneezing, blocked nose and curiously puffy face I've been carrying around as a result of Friday's little misadventure.

I've so far let two perfectly valid excuses slip past me. So tomorrow, I'm staying in bed, I am. My nose is still blocked, I'm not sleeping well, and Nate Fisher just died.

Do you reckon I can download the next episode before I collapse?