WHEN I worked at the council we had call from a bloke out Robertson way after we sent him a massive water consumption bill. He asked if we could waive the account because one of his cows had eaten into a polythene pipe he had run across his paddocks to water a cattle trough. It seems this clever old cow dug up the pipe regularly and chewed through the polythene to get a drink of good town water, rather than the muddy stuff in his dam. We explained that he had to first rectify the problem before we’d consider reducing his bill. He phoned back the next day.

“I’ve fixed the problem. Now can I have the bill adjusted?” he asked politely.

“Do you have a certificate from a plumber to say the problem has been rectified?’ we asked.

“No need,” he said adamantly, “I shot the bloody cow.” 

True story!

A colleague failed to show up at work one Monday, but waltzed in on Tuesday morning all bright eyed and bushy tailed.

“Where were you yesterday?” asked his boss and without even flinching, the young bloke claimed he woke up on Monday morning, saw the Sunday paper sitting on the front lawn and assumed it was still the weekend, so he rolled over and went back to sleep.  

A very good looking young lady I worked with phoned one Monday morning to say she wouldn’t be in.

“Sorry Geoff,” she said sheepishly, “but a couple of us girls went to a nudist beach on the weekend and I got terribly sunburned - I can’t even sit down.”

What could I say?  Let’s face it, I couldn’t really ask her to prove it, could I?

Another female colleague told me one day the best trick if you have a male boss is to phone in sick, then start explaining in great detail some gynaecological problem you are having.  She reckons blokes can’t stand listening to gruesome matters about women’s nether regions - or down below, as my mother used to so quaintly say.  

"The boss will quickly tell you to just stay home and rest. Works every time,” she said with a knowing twinkle in her eye, which suggested she might have tried it herself a few times.

School teachers must have heard some fanciful excuses from kids over the years. 

We all know “the dog ate my homework defence”, but I am sure every teacher could relate their own wonderful tale.  

I went to school with a repeat offender.  He regularly came back to our boarding school late on a Monday morning after a weekend at home and always had a good excuse.  

“Dad couldn’t get the plane down this morning because of all the fog,” he said one morning to the teacher with great conviction after looking out of the classroom window and noticing the fog still hadn’t lifted. 

His school report at the end of the year read something like, “Stephen has coped quite well in what must have been a difficult year for him after losing three grandmothers, two aunts and his favourite dog.”

Young Dud turned up late to school on Monday. 

It wasn’t unusual for Young Dud to be late and it wasn’t unusual for Young Dud to have a good excuse. Monday was no exception.

“OK Young Dud, what’s your excuse today?” asked the teacher.

Well!” said Young Dud seriously, “last night Dad went to bed with no pyjamas.  At about midnight there was a hell of a ruckus in the chook-house, so Dad grabbed the shotgun and we all went out to see what was happening. Dad went first, without his pyjamas, then his old black dog. Me and mum followed.  When we got to the chook-house there was a noise.  Dad propped, crouched down and cocked the shotgun, but the old black dog just kept walking.  His cold nose bumped into Dad’s bum and I’ve been cleaning up bloody dead chooks all morning.”