The time a strange man weed in my garden...

As you can see from this post title, today's offering is going to be an unconventional one. Not that there is anything unconventional about passing urine; more so that doing so in someone's flowers is kind of strange to say the least.
Let us rewind just a little so that you get the full flow... See what I did there? Anyway, the following happened a few weeks ago. The sun was shining and it was a Saturday. There are very few sentences that can beat that one right there, unless, perhaps, you include the words; lottery, won and holiday, then it's a no-brainer.
The sun was out in full force and Scott and I decided to take Hamish and Ralph, (See here for some cute photos) for a little spot of fine-dining on the grassy, communal area of our apartment block. They could have their fill of the greenery, whilst we topped up our non-existent tans and sipped Cool Grape long drinks, which are the Finnish version of bottled heaven, or if you want a more accurate description, gin and grapefruit juice. Also, it's in a can, not bottled but who cares?
So, there we were, minding our own business when a man of questionable character cycled around the corner and parked his two-wheeled wonder in the block bike rack. Now they say you shouldn't judge a book by its cover, but when a half-cut man cycles, and by cycles, I mean, 'sits on a bike whilst being steered by vodka and blurred vision' into your view, you're only going to question what on earth is going to happen next. Which I most certainly did; although I wasn't entirely prepared for what ensued.
Before I could utter the words, toilet duck, the man in question dropped his trousers and proceeded to, 'relieve' himself in the bushes adjacent to our apartment entrance. May I just take this moment to point out that before partaking in such act, the man stared right at us sitting on the grass so he simply cannot be excused for thinking he could sneak a crafty wee whilst no one was around. It would appear that the idea of an audience was not enough to deter him from watering the flowers without the aid of a hose... as such. 
If that unsavoury display wasn't enough, I had to witness the shake, i.e. the indicative end of a successful male wee, in all its glory. I can't say that I have truly been the same since. 
Having clearly decided that putting on a show for two unwilling participants and two unwitting guinea pigs, was exhausting. The public sprinkler mustered up whatever energy he had left to find a soft, grassy spot in the shade, in which to bed down in and have a nap. This all took place approximately ten steps from where we were sitting.
There's just no, 'right way' to respond in such a situation. Part of me wanted to offer him a sandwich for his efforts and the other half of me wanted to call him out on his poor social etiquette. In the end, we did neither. We packed our things up and returned to our apartment feeling sheepish and somewhat unsure about what type of abuse we had just endured. 
It's safe to say that all future garden sessions have been approached with caution and I have never looked at that particular patch of flowers in the same way since.