The evolution of excuses in the modern age

Yesterday I turned up to the office late, feeling sheepish and something of a tool.

If I had the swagger of say, Mr Kanye West, I would have strolled into the office, removed my impractical luminous stripe-sunglasses and launched a verbal tirade to my co-workers: "You should be honoured by my lateness/ that I would even turn up to this fake shit/ so go ahead, go nuts go ape shit".

However, in the real world, this sort of lofty arrogance has consequences. Like senior management beckoning you into their office, saying: "Tom, you got a minute?". (The phrase most feared by desk monkeys nationwide.)

The family Hall has a proud history of excuse-making and general avoidance of responsibility. My brother once camped-out in our 6ft x 4ft loft for a week to avoid telling my parents he'd been suspended. He even intercepted the school's letter as it came through the door and drafted a response purported to be from my mum.

The exercise taught him a valuable lesson in mental aptitude (judging which house exits and entrances to use to best avoid adult detection), english (penning a letter using the convincing narrative voice of a 40 year old woman), food technology (he had to make his own grub, I assume) and history (he underwent first hand the trials of Anne Frank, albeit without as dire consequences).

In another dysfunctional family episode, my dad once refused to accept responsibility when he lost a fried egg he'd cooked. He undertook an exhaustive search of the dining area, pointing in anger at smirking faces household-wide, even blaming the cat at one stage.

He only saw the humour in the situation after considerable hindsight. The egg never showed up.

Thankfully, my late arrival to work yesterday required little acceptance of responsibility on my part because I am currently running the magazine on my own whilst the rest of my team are swanning about at a trade show in Vegas. Bloody Vegas!

The genuine reason for my lateness however, would have taken a lengthy explanation. Basically- after a recommendation from my friend Emma- I downloaded Sleep Cycle, an iPhone app. The software harnesses the motion detecting functionality of Steve Job's ubiquitous device to measure the amount of movement a person makes in their sleep.

Active periods of movement indicate deeper sleep- with the device waking you at the most suitable point of lighter sleep before the time you set. It's the sort of faddy, pseudo scientific ball crap I'm the key demographic for.

Unfortunately, the app also saps the battery of the iPhone and needs to be plugged in over night- a flaw I failed to account for.

I awoke then, in a state of panic at 9.06am after having a strange, but oddly comforting dream about porridge.

Fail.

BFF(uniquely modern)F.