I may need drugs otherwise I might end up in prison

I currently work part time in an office for a small company - so small there’s only me and the boss in the office.

The job is boring and it’s fair to say my boss irritates the crap out of me.

There are two windows in the office which overlook a large area of roof of a shop below, on which birds tend to gather - pigeons mostly.

Although pigeons in general are a bit of a pain in the arse, I don’t have a problem with them at work, and yes they make their pigeon noises, but I don’t really hear them.

My boss hates the pigeons.

Hates them so much, he regularly jumps up from his chair, rushes over to the window, bangs on it and shouts, “Fucking pigeons, they get on my tits! Fuck off!”

For some reason I find that far more aggravating than any bloody pigeon. Can’t think why.

I arrived at work the other day to find my boss standing on the windowsill, banging on the glass with his left hand whilst waving his right hand out of open fanlight window shouting, “Fuck off out of it!”

Knowing there was no way he’d be able to get at them, needless to say the pigeons smugly ignored him. With my face pointing downwards and while biting the inside of my mouth, I hastily dumped my handbag on the desk and said I needed to go to the loo, where I was able to laugh out loud.

Not only does my boss irritate me, he also bores me witless.

I do appreciate that for many, gardening is very pleasant and satisfying - I can see that, really, I can - however my boss is obsessed to the point of being fanatical, particularly with the grass in his back garden.

He had it re-turfed earlier this year and is paranoid about weeds appearing in it. He regularly bores me stupid tells me about how he treats the lawn with feed and weed and then - horror of horrors! – it started getting brown patches and he decided it had some sort of fungus. He tried treating and aerating it, but it doesn’t seem to be working.

I couldn’t give a flying fuck about his grass. What I tend to hear is, ‘blah blah blah, grass, blah blah blah, more grass, blah blah blah.’

I end up having to open the stationary cupboard and pretend to rummage around in there, but really I’m yawning my head off, while fighting the urge to say, ‘For gawd’s sake, shut up you boring fart.’

The day he bought in three samples of artificial grass and asked my opinion about them was a turning point.

I am, you can be assured, looking for another job elsewhere, but I am committed to working for him until at least the end of October, as it will allow him to leave me to run the business for just over a couple of weeks while he visits Eldest Daughter, Captain Oz and Twinkle in Australia.

Oh wait.

I ‘forgot’ to tell you.

My boss is my first husband, Mr Ex, the father of my children.

Moral of this post:

Do not work for your ex-spouse, or you may find yourself requesting visitors when you’re in prison for committing manslaughter on the grounds of diminished responsibility, due to extreme tediousness and being bugged the hell out of. And drug taking.