Paphos People

I COULDN’T COME TO WORK BECAUSE.......

Being the owner of a removal company and an employer was very a gratifying feeling when things were going well. You can provide a service to the public, and at the same time provide your staff with a living wage and hopefully a good social life. A pint or two and a game of pool or darts together in the local pub after work helped.
I employed eight men and in a small company like that, your staff could be your friends as well. The customers also appreciated the fact that the guys were enjoying their work. That was very important when they were moving your precious belongings. All in all it was a very convivial arrangement for everyone.
Generally the crews had a good sense of humour and practical jokes happened on a regular basis. Most of the guys had nicknames, there was MAGIC, a demon footballer in his youth, Doris, a huge bald chap who looked like a ‘skinhead’ but in reality was a pussycat, Budgie, when customers asked why Magic used to say “Have you seen his legs?” reality was he couldn’t keep his mouth shut. If you had a secret you didn’t tell Budgie!
However, things didn’t always run smoothly, occasionally somebody wouldn’t turn up for work and if you were short handed, it was time to roll your sleeves up and pitch in but you got by.
The next morning the offender would turn up and always had an implausible excuse. Over the years I must have heard them all - for example:

I couldn’t come in because my wife had a toothache.

I couldn’t come in because the dog had diar, diore, dirre, the squits!

I couldn’t come in because I had the squits, I must have picked it up off the dog.

I couldn’t come in because we had a barbeque over the weekend and I burnt my arm on a sausage!

I couldn’t come in because I felt ill and accidentally sicked my false teeth down the toilet, fortunately I found them after raising the manhole cover but by the time I had cleaned them up it was too late.

I couldn’t come to work because my twin sister is pregnant and I had sympathetic morning sickness.

I couldn’t come to work because I overdosed at a viagara party at the weekend and couldn’t leave the house until Tuesday!

Most of these excuses were made up from one man. Let’s call him Donald, otherwise known as Hardon (Our Don as his Dad used to call him.)
One day he came to me with a genuine request that he couldn’t go on any jobs out of town because his Dad was in hospital with a terminal brain tumour and could die at any time soon. I knew his Dad had not been well recently and had been for tests.
Unfortunately the old chap passed away a few weeks later. Donald was in pieces and, feeling sympathetic, I told him not to come back until he was ready-that was a mistake. He came back a couple of weeks later, after the funeral, with a sick note from the doctor saying that he had post bereavement stress disorder.
This routine went on for twenty five weeks, after which he came back to work and promptly handed in his notice. I asked him why and he explained that the sick note period was only for a maximum of six months, but he was getting so much money from the social services that it wasn’t worth his while coming back to work! Also his wife liked him being at home, so she got her man and his three kids got their Dad.
Meantime we had been using casual labour, Pirate, because he had a droopy moustache like Captain Hook, to replace him, so I offered him Donald’s job. When I told the rest of the crew, somebody said that Donald was about as useful as a one legged man in an butt kicking competition! I don’t think he ever worked again and lived off the state.
Pirate was well received as one of the team.

Such were the joys of being an employer!