The green, green grass of home

Like most people, I complain about my job from time to time. There are never enough hours in the day, resources are always spread too thinly and then there’s all the internal politics to deal with.

But whenever the pressure gets to me, I remind myself of one thing . . . at least I don’t have to pee in a bucket.

The man who has just completed my patio does. And so do his employees. I offered them the use of my loo but they were having none of it. It was too clean for them, apparently.

“Don’t you worry about us,� he said, after I’d pointed out the little boys’ room, “we won’t be dragging our muddy feet through your house. We’ll just pee in a bucket. That’s what we always do.�

Despite my reassurances that buckets really weren’t necessary – and that I could lay down some dust sheets if he was that worried - he was insistent. There would be no piddling in the Oxley pot. That just wasn't how he did business . . . or should I say HIS business.

Thankfully I never got to see the bucket. Nor did I discover how or where he disposed of its contents.

All I know is that two weeks on I have a nice new patio, a mud-free hallway and a surprisingly lush lawn.

And now, whenever I take a leak at work, the presence of Mr Armitage Shanks reminds me that things could be a whole lot worse.

So what’s the moral of this story? Perhaps it's just my way of reminding myself to keep those workplace irritations in perspective . . . and to acknowledge that the grass is not always greener elsewhere.

Except in my garden, that is.

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