It’s come to my attention that my boss is sleeping with a girlfriend of mine. Now I don’t mind this – we are all adults – however, I hate it when I ask him how his evening was and he tells me it was “quiet”, when I know he has been up all night take recreational drugs and bonking her. I feel like he’s insulting my intelligence. Do I say and do nothing, do I say nothing but give him a look (you know, that narrow-eyed look), or do I use it to blackmail him into better working conditions and a massive salary increase?

Her Name Was Lola, St Kilda

Dear Her Name Was Lola,

I think most have encountered a little bit of suspicious extracurricular office activity: misuse of the photocopier for purposes other than for which it’s intended; stolen trysts in the elevator as it descends and the temperature rises; and a little bit of filing the manila folder marked ‘Pen15’ in the compactus. It’s devilishly saucy and incredibly unprofessional. I was first privy to some workplace shenanigans at an early age when the brim of my hat was yet to stiffen (interpret as you will). Now this might shock you, but I once worked beneath those shimmering golden arches, the place you go if you want to ruin a perfect complexion and wear really tight ill-fitting grey trousers and a matching candy-striped short-sleeved shirt with a clip-on necktie. Wipe that look of horror off your face – I was there for a limited time at the tender age of fourteen years and nine months as law required and didn’t actually do any work.

You see, I was the Drive-Thru tart – a role usually bestowed upon the most inept in the fast-food industry. All my job description required was to occasionally blurt incoherently through the loudspeaker, push buttons on a primitive cash register and make the cardboard rings that would go around the burgers to keep them in shape. It was the perfect way for an apathetic teen to catch up on sleep, gossip and earn minimum wage for doing so. Besides, I was linked to the Madonna headset of my equally useless counterpart, who, truth be told, was probably more incompetent than I was, as he was frequently stoned.

Working on the Drive-Thru had its advantages and given my proximity to the stockroom and the industrial freezer; espionage. The Store Manager was an oaf of a man whose snarling, chest-beating and hirsute arms rivalled King Kong. I would dread when King Kong Jr. came to change the float in the cash register and his hairy ape arms would brush against mine (darn short-sleeved shirt!) sending a wave of nausea throughout my spindly little body. Against all odds, he had found his damsel in the fast food fold – a broad girl with a shirty disposition and a sizeable derriere – and had transferred her into our humble trans-fats outlet despite denying the incidence of any nepotism. Like you, Lola, he insulted our (combined) intelligence, which only exacerbated the curiosity.

One particular day during a quiet period on the D-T, I was asked if I could fetch some supplies from the freezer for the burger-flippers out the back. Obliging, I opened the heavy steel door to discover some foul play aloft: King Kong Jr. helping his damsel to ‘reach the chicken nuggets’. Slamming the door shut and standing with a frozen look on my face that was caused by shock not the frigidity of the environment, I promptly resumed my post at the first window, teeth chattering and hands shaking.

Some weeks later, after word had circulated that King Kong Jr. and his damsel were bumping burgers in the freezer, I was summoned to the kitchen where the burger-flippers were toiling at their grills, slapping down processed meat like it were a belligerent Los Angeles streetwalker. King Kong Jr. turned to me with burger-flippers standing eagerly behind him, keen to witness our confrontation, and said, “Agony Uncle, how would you like to be trained to work out the back?” In a moment that seemed like an eternity, I looked at the grinning pimply faces in front of me and made my decision to retain my status as Drive-Thru tart and my clear skin and replied, “King Kong Jr., I’m too pretty to work out the back,” and flicked my Madonna headset-adorned head and proudly marched off, while an incredulous Neanderthal jaw hit the floor, along with the hysterical burger-flippers.

My point is, keep your trap shut, knowingly smile each morning when he comes in and eventually he might confess to you. Revealing your knowledge isn’t going to get you anywhere and holding it against him can only backfire – and before you know it, you’ll end up flipping burgers in an oh-so-sexy greasy uniform. You’ll have an affair with your very own King Kong Jr. and although endless supply of burgers and soft serve might seem lucrative at first, I imagine sweet and sour sauce would sting when smeared over the naked body. You’ll put on weight, he’ll lose interest and before you know it, you’ll be hocking your six-pack of nuggets out in the carpark wondering where you went wrong. Life is so cruel (and delicious).

I do believe there’s more for you to read: