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.

So There I Was...

...sitting quietly in my back garden yesterday afternoon, taking a break from clearing a bit of jungle in a corner of my garden, contemplating the nettle rash up both arms (note to self: wear a top with long sleeves in future, OR, don’t let the mini jungle grow in the first place), and also resting from shifting rocks - like you do (you don’t? Oh, just me then).

I was also taking a break from crunching snails underfoot, flicking spiders off me, thinking how ugly woodlice are, wondering why my hair doesn’t grow as fast as weeds seem to, being thankful I’m not a bird (I’d have to eat worms), wondering if it was too breezy for a barbecue later (yes), hoping I wasn't going to crapped on from a great height, seeing as I was working underneath a tree (I didn't), yada yada.

I’d been sitting there for a while, drinking my well earned John Smith’s (let me help you out - ‘geezer bird’ is the phrase you’re after), picking bits of weed off my t-shirt, when I heard part of what I assumed to be a phone conversation taking place.

As it’s so quiet round here, voices carry, but people seem to think their gardens are soundproof. And we all know they’re not. You’d think.

I wasn’t really taking much notice until I heard a laugh followed by, “do you like uniforms?”

Hello?!

With hindsight, I could have made my presence known by making a noise. But where's the fun in that?

I’m not going to relay the conversation word for word, because it was one-sided and I missed some of it as I had to dive indoors due to being overcome by a giggling fit. But some of it covered:

men’s uniform (“ooh, I like a man in uniform”) (Fireman’s? Policeman’s? Captain’s? Sainsbury’s?)

nurses uniform (1.“short” plus 2.“bed bath”) (1. I’d have thought that’s a given in those circumstances 2. Oh good grief)

school uniform (I’m not even going there)

underwear (“lacy”) (phew, coulda been a lot worse)

lettuce (wtf?? I must have missed something important, or led a sheltered life)

rabbits (ah, that’d explain the lettuce)


Who needs the radio? I’ll just sit in my back garden in future and tune in to real life Desperate Housewives!

Barefoot On The Grass - Not Me

I had a momentous moment yesterday. For me, a noteworthy momentous moment - I saw a worm and didn't run screaming for them thar hills. Not only that, I didn't just see the worm, I dealt with it.

I. Do. Not. Like. Worms.

Even as a child I didn't particularly like seeing them, not helped by a boy living across the road who used to bite them in half. Why would somebody want to do that? Strange boy.

What happened when I was about fifteen didn't help either. One lovely summer's day I went to a friend's house. As it was so warm and sunny, we decided to play badminton in her garden, but I had to remove my white stilettos because the heels were anchoring me into the ground. 

Hang on a minute, white stilettos? I can almost see the raised eyebrows. I was fifteen, for heaven's sake and it was the eighties - the decade when fashion sense went out the window. But yes, I'm an Essex girl, as in, I was born in Essex; no, I don't have blonde hair, although I did have it heavily highlighted once - big mistake, made me look ill. Nor do I drive a cabriolet and never have, however, I may be guilty of dancing round a handbag or two in my time, but not recently.

Sorry, I got side-tracked, back to my tale.

So I kicked off the shoes and played badminton barefoot.

Mistake.

There was a lull in our game when my friend's dad bought us out something to drink. After standing still for a minute or two, chatting and drinking, I felt a cold sensation between my toes on my right foot.

It took a couple of seconds to register before I looked down, but when I did... sheer horror! There was a worm coming out of the ground between my toes, about to make its way across my foot. Even now, all these years later, the memory makes me shudder.

Have you heard of the Adumu, known as the jumping dance? Well I jumped so bloody high, I could have become a fully paid up member of the Masai Tribe there and then, based solely on that one jump, even though my jump wasn't anywhere near as dignified as theirs are.

"W..., w..., w...," I was heard to shriek, so freaked out I couldn't even say the word. In the end I just pointed. My friend's dad was bent over double laughing at me and my friend said, "huh? It's just a worm".

Just a worm? Oh no. No, no, no. It was more than that - it was a worm out to get me. It had deployed it's Seek And Destroy Guidance System and found me. Bastard. And where's there's one, there's more, just out there, waiting...

I've never walked barefoot on grass since.

I've managed not to pass on this fear of all things slithery to Eldest Daughter and Youngest Daughter. The memory of Youngest Daughter proudly showing me a writhing pile of worms in her hands, while I was still in bed one Sunday morning, doesn't sit too well with me. They however, have a fear of spiders, whereas I don't. Go figure.

Significant Other and I had a deal. I caught spiders in the house and released them into the garden. In return, if I suspected any hint of a worm when outside, he inspected and then dealt with it if necessary, although I made him wash his hands afterwards - no way was I going to let him touch me after he'd handled a worm. Ugh.

Alright, it made him sigh, but he did it anyway. Especially after I gently reminded him of some of the whopping great spiders I'd rescued him from. One so big once, it could have looked a tarantula in the eye and in a deep voice said, "yo bro! How's it hangin'?" I was made to walk to the end of the road to release that one after I'd caught it, so don't mock me for making Significant Other wash his hands.

My garden suffers as a result of my worm phobia. It would be great to spend time out there in the garden, lovingly tending flowerbeds and nurturing all manner of plants. I wouldn't however, be the sort of gardener who trims their lawn with nail scissors. They do exist, I've seen them. My thought on seeing that? You need to get a life mate. 

The garden isn't a total wilderness, I do cut the grass and will occasionally attempt a bit of weeding - until I see a worm. As soon as that happens I'm off indoors, probably breaking all sorts of records for the fifteen yard sprint. When I get there, I shut the doors. So it can't get me.

With gloves on, I'll happily pick up and lob snails into the field next door, sometimes with a cry of "to infinity and beyonnnd" or "wheeee, super snaaail" as they fly through the air, the wind whistling through their tentacles. But worms, they are my nemesis.

Yesterday afternoon, with the air outside perfumed by a multitude of barbecues (who needs a volcanic ash cloud, try flying over South-East England on a sunny Sunday afternoon), I donned gloves, got out the tools I needed and began clearing around the front of the rockery, with Grumpy and Dopey positioned at opposite ends, watching me. I got about halfway round when... yup, worm.

I'd pulled a tuft of grass and with it was a clump of earth. And with the earth it was there, lying in wait.

I looked at Grumpy. I looked at Dopey. They were no help whatsoever, Dopey yawned and Grumpy stared me out, before blinking lazily and turning her back on me. Traitor.

What to do?

Run?

Barricade myself indoors?

Hope the cats would do a bit of worm wrangling on my behalf?

Or...

I squinted, so I couldn't see it properly, took a deep breath, then launched the whole lot, grass, earth, and worm, into the field. Hope I gave the bugger a headache. Then I carried on clearing the rockery. A momentous moment for me indeed.

"You're so brave," Eldest Daughter said, when I told her on the phone this morning. I don't think she was taking the piss. But she may have been.