I honestly cannot remember what I had in mind that fateful morning. In fact, I cannot even remember what chore made me fake an illness. Was it school that I wanted to avoid? A visit to a boring relative? Some family outing? Whatever it was, I complained of headache and tiredness.
My mother had a simple criterion for missing school: if a sick child had a fever, defined as a temperature of at least 38C, he or she would miss; otherwise, not, or he or she had to be pretty convincing, or have an unmistakable symptom such as diarrhea. Furthermore, complaints of tiredness and headache, indicating a possible bout of influenza or similar viral infection, always warranted a temperature check. Mother felt my brow with her hand, frowned and sent me to my room, saying she would bring me the thermometer.
I knew the routine. I got in bed. Mom came, put a bottle of medical alcohol and some cotton on the bedside table, pulled the thermometer out of its case, checked that the indicated temperature was below 36C (otherwise, she would vigorously wave it to push the mercury down) and handed it to me. I did what was expected of me – I took the thermometer, pulled it under the bed sheets, rolled on my side and stuck it in my anus.