They called in sick again.

It was easier for him; a quick email to his boss- a woman too busy to take phone calls, and a woman too busy to care- was all that sufficed. She had to wait until 9.30, until she knew her boss would be at his desk. That gave the rest of the office plenty of time to notice yet another absence, but it was plenty of time to sing herself hoarse.

She positively croaked down the phone.

The snatched back morning was slept away. She opened the windows wide, to let in the morning sun, and they stretched out like cats beneath the duvet. The sunlight splashed across her face, and he laughed and said that maybe she’d get a tan. They could not afford a holiday this year. This was their holiday.

The rest of the day was frittered away, filled with warm G&T’s and idle, hair brained schemes to get rich. She repeatedly vowed that this time, they’d clean up their act. He strummed his guitar and repeatedly ignored her.

After the fourth bottle, they were truly drunk, giggling as far away, termination papers were signed. They both fielded the news with good grace, not caring at all about substandard work, or unacceptable behaviour, and spent their last fifty on enough gin and cigarettes to get them through the rest of the week. They’d worry about it on Monday.