I was busy one weekend, so had said I wasn't around and I'd see him a few days later (and ignored the moaning texts about how that wasn't fair, how he could come and 'look after the house so it was safe', and the fucking creepy 'send me a naughty picture, then' shit he had just started doing, which was rapidly becoming the final straw).
I came home about 4 hours later to find that he had parked his car up where I wouldn't see it, climbed over a ten foot wall, broken the lid of the water butt and a branch off my Cherry Tree on the way down, forced the back door open, helped himself to my food and cracked open a few cans that he'd brought with him, so that, by 11.30am on a Saturday morning, he was passed out half on his back on my kitchen floor.
Instead of my first instinct being to put him into the recovery position, my first was such rage at him trampling over my literal boundaries, I briefly had the thought of booting him in his ugly, drunken face. My second was to say 'Are you dead? If not, you'd better not be here when I get back or I'm calling the Police' and I walked straight back out again for another four hours, figuring that if he died of aspirational asphyxia in that period, as long as he was breathing when I left (which he was), no court in the land would convict me of anything.
When I got back, he was gone. And then he left a voicemail later to stay that he'd had a dream that my house was going to be broken into and I was in danger, so he needed to come over and 'protect' me for when I got home.
I dumped him instead - because I'd realised that I genuinely didn't care if he died or not and because having thought of such violence towards him was obviously proof that it was over for me.