OK, so you got off your face last night and there is no way you could remain upright on the mountain bike all the way into work this morning - and anyway it's raining and there's no rear mudguard and you'd look really silly with that thin column of water tangenting straight up from the back wheel above your head and then down into that sodden, unhappy racoon stripe down the back of your fleece.
And getting out the silver scooter and paddling slowly along the footpath is plainly an impossibility, even if people on the street didn't laugh themselves silly at the sight. And at the office you're still waiting for the planners to get back from their month-long self-improvement programme in successfully wearing socks with sandals so . . . aaaaargh, that is it. A quick dash to the sink to unload a last bit of grief and then. . . This is going to have to be a duvet day.
Your parents called them sickies and some call them stress days, but it looks as though the Middle Way is to call them duvet days and enshrine them in legislation.
I hope they don't. The aftermath of a serious lagging, when foggily and carefully discussed over the mobile, sounds much like perfectly legitimate flu. The Third Way is essentially the prefects' way, redolent of form-filling and telling the strict truth: I'd rather busk it like our elders did.