Making the Cut (2)

It was 9:30am. The gleaming strimmer and mower stood expectant in front of me. In contrast, the forest of 6-foot-tall dandelions stood threatening, challenging me and my virgin machinery to take them on. The rain was still due to arrive at 11am. My final preparations for war needed to begin soon.

My armour consisted of sturdy walking boots (apparently beaded flip-flops are not appropriate footwear while wielding a strimmer) and full-length jeans. Not the most comfortable clothing in high heat and humidity, but a necessary precaution I felt.

My first strategy was to attack the weeds that had stalks so thick I feared they would break the strimmer. They were no match for the super-sharp secateurs. I have a knife in my kitchen drawer which is branded “The World’s Sharpest Knife”. I was brainwashed into buying it when I watched the salesman use it to cut through a metal chopping board. Seriously impressive. I have checked how sharp it is by using it to cut through metal myself. For no purpose other than to marvel at how sharp it is. Trust me, it’s sharp. But it has nothing on these secateurs. These secateurs could take on Wolverine. I only had to brandish them in front of the goliath dandelions for the invaders to fall, submissive and beaten, ready to be thrown onto the swiftly growing pile of defeated greenery.

This was easy. I should have done this months ago. No, seriously; I should have. I’m pretty sure my landlords would object to the state of the undergrowth. Actually, at this point it’s definitely overgrowth. I kept expecting to unearth Bear Grylls in the midst of an ultimate survival programme. But no such luck.

It was soon time to unleash the strimmer. I wasn’t entirely convinced that two strings of plastic rotating at high speed were sufficient adversaries for the waist high wilderness, but I was definitely looking forward to seeing what destruction they could cause. Possibly unhealthily so. And I was not disappointed…

Flourishing the strimmer in front of me, I was tentative to begin with, chopping in short bursts, but not for long. Soon I was striding with the confidence of Maximus Decimus Meridius beheading lions (albeit dande- ones). Testosterone coursed through me at a rate I had never before experienced. This, this, is what it feels like to be a man. To wage war and watch your enemy cower and wilt at your very presence. Unaware of the violent extent of my frenzied attack on plant life, I marched on, grass, leaves and brambles flying in a tornado of terror. Until, with ¾ of the garden brought to its knees, I came to an abrupt halt.

In my enthusiasm I had paid no heed to how close I came to the shed, the concrete wall, the wire fence. I felt invincible. But it turns out the strings of plastic were not. There was nothing of them left. Wounded, but unrelenting, I paused for refreshment before Googling where to buy more destructo-string. Only it turned out that half an hour of continual vibration through my arms had rendered my hands entirely incapable. As I watched the glass of juice fall to the floor in slow-motion, I resigned myself to the fact that there would be no further battles today.