The incessant mollycoddling in this country simply has to stop. People moan and whinge about having headaches and minor pains to the point that we’re wholeheartedly sick of them and would happily put them out of their misery given half the chance (no, just me? How embarrassing for my intolerance to have been uncovered in this manner). But you know what it’s like. You are the bravest of all the soldiers, sallying forth to the office even though you have a streaming cold, a worrying ache in your side and a bleeding stump where your leg used to be. However, your colleagues don’t seem to be capable of displaying your degree of dedication.
Unless they can’t physically get themselves to their desks (you know, because they can’t bring themselves to move their heads away from the loo for optimal vomiting range. Have I become too graphic yet? Are you starting to need a lie down? Quitter) they really have absolutely no excuse. It’s hardly as if many of us do work that requires especial exertion. It might be soul crushing and mentally draining but it’s been a long time since you’ve broken a sweat at the office (and when that happened you know precisely what you were getting up to. They were gossiping about it for months).
Paracetamol is the panacea, the cure all that really ought to be dispensed alongside the paper towels. Anyone who refuses to pop a tablet or two after complaining of feeling under the weather should be dealt with in the strictest of manners. At least that’s what our dear old Prime Minister wants to do with the workshy segment of the population. Draconian and overly interfering as it may be, I can really see it going down well with the voters that UKIP happen to be aggressively courting. Don’t you? We’re all doomed.