Making the Cut (3)

So in a feat of unprecedented strength and mastery on my part (and perhaps a little belonging to the tools), the garden had been tamed from a tangle of weeds into something that was (at least for ¾ of its length) traversable. This was HUGE progress. But then the rain came.

During the two days of showers I learnt that I did not need to purchase new string for the strimmer, as there is more inside the machine waiting to be unwound. I both winced at my ignorance and rejoiced in the fact that reducing the flex to stubs was expected behaviour.

After the showers came the sunshine, and I had a small window to finish the job before rain was to fall again. I gave the garden a day of sunbathing to dry out a bit – still wary of running electrical machinery through water – before completing the strimming and readying myself for the big one. The ascension into true manhood: pushing a heavy whirring blade backwards and forwards across the lawn.

Back on the clock, it was 10am and the rain was due at 11:45. The garden really isn’t that long, so this seemed ample time. Still basking in the glory of having assembled the machine myself, I wheeled it out, deposited it in the corner of the lawn and plugged it in. My skin prickled in anticipation as I pressed the button on the front and then squeezed the levers on the handle. Nothing. I tried again. Nothing. I checked the extension lead; I checked the wall socket; I checked the plug on the machine. All fine. Were my DIY skills flawed? Was my moment of glory to become a moment of disgrace?

Fortunately not. The instructions for turning it on had simply been written by the same Neanderthal as the assembly instructions. Apparently I needed to press in the button and squeeze the levers at the same time. Only minutely humiliated, I began the climactic conclusion to the sorry saga of sorting the garden.

Once again I felt empowered. I became one with the machine as I pulled and pushed, and a lawn began to emerge from beneath the blades. But time was running out. I could feel moisture in the air, and the combination of heaving a weighty machine over resistant grass, protective clothing and humidity was creating a new problem. I was sweating so much that I needed a Moses-style miracle in order to avoid impending electrocution.

Bereft of heavenly intervention, however, and certain I could feel the first drops of precipitation descending, I decided to up the pace, and in doing so created a new sport. Forget yummy mummies jogging with buggies, this is lardy ladies lugging lawnmowers. I think it could make the Olympics. Points given for avoiding electrocution by rivers of sweat. Extra points for dodging flying lumps of fossilised faecal matter of the canine variety. Based on my initial experience, I believe I could win gold.

Frantic, and with zero trace of my initial excitement remaining, I forced the mower over the final patch and emptied the grass for what feels like the umpteenth time. I parked the machines in the shed, and collapsed on the sofa: a sticky, green version of Bigfoot. It didn’t rain all day.