Cutting the Lawn

Just in from cutting the lawn, I’m struck by how completely pointless it all was. Judy’s knee meant that there was no way she could drag the old mower around our patch of demi-paradise so it fell to Yours Truly to get down there and take up the yoke. I should never have left it so long. The grass was so deep it was almost achieving sentience. If I’d given it much longer it would have been marching down the road and claiming state benefits. It’s all now on the compost but no doubt the stuff has started to grow and reassert itself on the garden. I have a mind to let it grow into one of those natural gardens which BBC2 types go on about all the time; all untrimmed bushes and creeping weeds with the occasional frog or rat doing a jig across the patio. I can feel Judy glaring at me, even as I typed that sentence.

The worst part was trimming the edge, which defied all logic. For two or three days, we can live with the satisfaction that our grass is growing according to some arbitrary straight line. An hour it took me to go around the bloody thing straight, snipping it away with the trimmer. And what this means is that I’m too exhausted to write. However, judging from recent comments, perhaps that’s no great loss.