Day Time T.V.

Now its ten o'clock I feel a tiny stab of guilt,
Cool air hits my face as I'm throwing back my quilt,
Made the call an hour ago, 'I can't come in I'm sick'
The absence register, by my name, gains another tick.
For a moment I think of workmates, smirking as I muse,
What it's like at their desks, in a bubble of stale booze,
My colleagues will be fuming, at their terminals they sit,
Angry with themselves because, I, not they have done it.
Right! my momentary guilt has gone, sit and watch T.V.,
Sucked right into hell, by changing channel remotely.
Oh no! Not Kilroy, I think he's a condescending git,
Thank-you God it's finished, you really do exist.
Can't wait for what's on next, so channel hop instead,
Through QVC, Discovery, then stop on Father Ted.
Oh Oh, adverts, that one that makes me feel like wrecking,
That knob from B&;Q and his cheap and easy decking.
Smoking buttons on my zapper, channel hop some more,
Settle on some football where, I already know the score,
Dark again, and through my fingers, has slipped another day,
Achieved absolutely nothing, not work, not rest or play,
Twelve solid hours, of just what the T.V. has to say,
It's retribution from the bastards, for statutory sick pay.