The Skiver. By Andy Sanson

TheSKIVER

The fourth in the series of diversionary and humorous articles by Andy Sanson. Andy is a retired Dental Technician who has kindly offered to share some of his stories and experiences throughout his career.

“You can’t have six bloody weeks off for a sprained ankle.” “Well, the doctor says I have to. He’s given me a sick note and told me to rest it.”

“Nonsense. They’ll give you a sick note for a pimple these days. Most of them are only just out of school. Get yourself in here and we’ll rig up something for you to put your foot up on.”

“I can’t do that. He says I have to lie on the sofa and keep it elevated.”

“What a load of rubbish. Trouble with you young buggers – you’ve got no staying power. In my day you’d have to have a leg off before you stayed at home. Poor old Jambo used to drag himself in when there was hardly anything left of him. Bah!”

The Boss, despite his fluster and bluster, knew he was on a loser. The doctor had been most specific. I had the note in my hand ready to post off to work as soon as I could get someone, probably my Mum, to take it down the post box for me. It was 1976 and we were, although we didn’t know it yet, on the verge of the hottest summer for many years which, coincidentally, was destined to last exactly as long as my enforced absence. I put down the rapidly melting telephone receiver and smiled a smile to myself.

The back story to all this was a function at the local boat club. Normally it wasn’t the sort of place any of us would frequent but occasionally they rented it out for parties and the annual Regatta was always popular, especially as the bar was open all day. This was in the days before all-day pub opening so we would troop down there at about twelve noon and stay for the duration. People would go there who had absolutely no interest in rowing or any of the twaddle that accompanied it, partly for the extended licencing hours and partly because it usually fell on the same day as the FA Cup Final and it was the only place open that had a colour tv. Some time early in my career I had been asked by the Junior Partner if I would like to become a member and take up the ‘sport’. It was his Sport Of The Week and, if he was to believed, he was very good at it, a revered member of the Committee and had only turned down an impassioned plea to turn professional and become part of the British Olympic team because of his commitment to The Lab. This kind invitation, I politely declined, citing lack of interest and a preference for motorcycling but secretly holding the view that they were all a bunch of toffee-nosed gits who drank G&Ts and spoke in silly, affected voices.

This particular occasion was a party held in honour of someone’s twenty first birthday, or an engagement, or a divorce or something, I never really knew anything about it apart from the fact that I had been handed an invitation in the pub a few weeks before along with everyone else in the room. It would have been rude not to, so along I went. Now, I don’t know if someone had spilt some beer on the steps or there had been a shower of the last rain we were to have for a month and a half. At the side of the building was a metal staircase which led up to the balcony where the entrance to the first floor bar was. At some point in the evening I set off down the stairs and missed the last five or six, landing heavily on my right ankle and turning it virtually upside down and inwards. I have to say it stung a bit. But not as much as it stung the following morning after I had jiggled around on it all night and opted to walk the three miles home. When I woke, at about seven am, it felt like it had been put through one of those machines that crushes a family saloon into something with the dimensions of a Rubik Cube and hit repeatedly with a sledgehammer wielded by someone who made Geoff Capes look like Walter from Dennis The Menace. It had taken on the appearance of a large overripe aubergine and set up a throbbing that persisted with the regularity of an atomic clock so that eventually I was bundled into the car and driven to the hospital by my dad for immediate attention by Hattie Jacques and her team. They examined it thoroughly, patched it up a bit and gave me a pair of crutches. Then they told me to keep off it for six weeks and gave me a note to pass to my doctor which I did the following Monday and that’s how I came to be the proud possessor of a licence to skive for the whole of the forthcoming summer.

I wouldn’t like anyone to think that I took undue advantage of this situation and strung it out longer than necessary. I was careful to keep off the injured part to the best of my ability, as per instruction. The pub, run by the indomitable Elsie and domain of Horace and his cronies, was only fifty yards from home and with the aid of the crutches I was able to get a little exercise in order that the rest of me didn’t seize up completely. So, each afternoon, I would venture out and gingerly hop the short distance, put my foot up on a stool and spend a few hours resting it.

The heatwave continued unabated. There were standpipes in streets around the country and a chancing vendor who set up a stall in Hyde Park selling tins of Coke had it turned over by irate customers annoyed at the fact he was charging forty pence each for them when the average shop price was something like fifteen.

Of course, it couldn’t last forever and when the weather did finally break it came with a suddenness that caught the country unawares. I recall everyone emptying out of the pub and dancing in the road as the cooling waters descended from the Heavens in torrents. I think the deluge must have had hidden healing properties as well because by some miracle my foot seemed to fix itself at that very moment which brought momentary relief shattered immediately by the realisation that I would now have to go back to work. Well, at least The Boss would be happy about that.

There’s no pleasing some folk, is there? Far from being delighted at the news of my imminent return to the fold the following Monday, The Boss fell to outlining in copious detail the inconvenience suffered by The Lab over recent weeks and made it quite plain that he felt I should present myself the following morning irrespective of what it said on my obviously over sympathetic sick note.

By Andy Sanson