I was, I am thrilled to say, home for the start of our neighbour’s lawn-mowing season.
From 2pm until 5pm she mowed her lawn. She does not have that much grass. It takes, I would say, about ten minutes – if that – per lawn if you’re a normal human being. For her, much longer. In fact, I was planning on doing ours. I still am, I just don’t want it to look like I’m copying. Anyway, usually, it takes me longer to dig the mower out, bring it round and plug it in than it does to mow the lawn. That’s what I’m saying.
It wasn’t until she started that I realised how much I had missed the endless stream of gravel that she fires at our door with her pre-mow strim of the grass. She tend to use scissors in the back garden – I kid you not – but for the front of the house, a good strim all over before tackling it with the mower is the general technique. A portion of this involves her hanging over the fence and strimming whatever grass is poking through, I guess. Or whatever she can get at between the slats of the fence. I don’t know. It’s weird. And it makes it sound like someone is peppering the front door with buckshot.
There’s then a period of thirty to forty minutes where the pavement, road and our front path is meticulously swept clean.
Our front path, incidentally, being the place that most of the soil from her garden ends up every time there’s anything approaching heavy rain. Probably because it’s not bound together with any grass as she strims the living shit out of it. But who can say?
I did a bad thing, as well. I was outside, sorting out some stuff for Carole to take to the bottle bank on the way to/from/or when she’s sent home from work tomorrow. I did that, and thought I’d have a little straighten up in the garden while I was there. I was busy scraping moss of the paving slabs and weeding in the cracks… and then she emerged to start work on the back garden – bag of grass from the front tied up tighter than a nun’s habit.
I just threw the hoe (as in what I had been using to shift the moss, not a slang term for our neighbour) in the shed and ducked inside when she turned around.
I don’t have time to talk to her about her woes – because they usually are woes. That’s more Carole’s job than mine. She loves that stuff. She went to the bin the other day and was gone for twenty minutes.
I can’t do that.
I can, however, move inside pretty fast for a fat guy…