Climbing The Ladder (And hopping the hedges)

I recently lost my job in PR. Well, I liked to call it PR, but basically I used to dress up as a squirrell and stand outside a garden-centre waving at passing motorists. I lost the job due to new management at the garden-centre. The new manager proved to be a very angry and demanding man. He told me that he Ate, slept, and breathed the garden-centre way of life, and I tended to believe him as he looked like his hair had been cut with a strimmer. He scrapped my squirrel position on his first day in office and swiftly demoted me to general-dogsbody. During quiet retail periods he would have me hold cast-iron garden-furniture above my head just so he felt he was getting his moneys worth. Such was my hatred for my new boss, I found myself having a reoccurring-dream in which I put something in his coffee, and when he wakes up he finds himself buried up to his neck in sand in some flat desert-plain with a pair of binoculars gaffa-taped onto his head. When he scans the horizon through the binoculors, he sees me, some two and a half mile away, running franticly towards him with a cricket-bat. (Feel free to use this fantasy on your own boss) My suspicions that he had a personal-vendetta against me were gently stirred one day when he viciously attacked me with a potted-cactus while screamingDIE! DIE! DIE! YOU FUNNY-SURNAMED BASTARD! I managed to protect myself during the assault with the use of two grow-bags, a Yucca plant, twelve garden-gnomes, and seventy-three bottles of Baby-Bio. I promptly filed a court-case against him for GBH/Unfair dismissal, and was eventually awarded compensation in the form of a five-pound Argos gift-voucher. I ran from the court-room victorious, and instantly purchased a Batman Thermos-flask. As gratifying as this was, I had a huge mortgage on a tiny grit-box and I had to find paid work fast. I replied to an Ad in the classifieds, Henchman required by expanding local Mafia boss. I landed the job, but I struggled with the whole gangland thing, especially the terminology. The boss (Don Cannelloni) called me into his office one day and informed me that the head of a rival firm (Don Calzone) had been claiming protection money on our turf. He then told me that it was going to be my job to take Calzone out. Three days later, I took Calzone to see the latest Harry Potter at the Showcase cinema. The following day, Cannelloni asked if I had taken care of him? I assured him that not only had I paid him in, but I also picked up the tab for his Pick n Mix, and dropped him off at his doorstep at the end of the night. Well, Cannelloni went absolutely BARMY! I was upset with my bollocking, but I took pride and consolation in the fact that I adapt quickly and learn fast. Then, just two weeks later, he tells me that his mother is flying in from Sicily at the weekend and he will be away on unexpected business, so would I take care of her and take her out? Well? When he got back, he went absolutely BARMY! Now with a £2m contract on my head, I knew I could never return to my grit-box again and was subsequently forced to go into hiding. This was to prove problematic, as I knew absolutely nothing about the treating and preservation of animal-pelts, and I also have a great love for animals. When one particular customer was actually savaged by one of my mink-coats, the irate husband decided he would express his dissatisfaction with the combined use of morse-code and a baseball-bat. I regained consciousness in Staincliffe Hospital some six weeks later, where I am now updating my blog using a lap-top I borrowed from a kindly visitor of the patient in the next bed. I will have to call it a day now, as the aforementioned visitor is stood at the foot of my bed repeatedly sighing, tutting, and looking at his watch.

I dont know whats up with the guy. He should be chuffed to bits! They let his dad go home three days ago?