MARTIN DAWES: Grasscutting to suit even ewe
IT'S about time to cut the lawn again. Now this is not my favourite among a suburban husband's duties but it has to be done, or at least so my wife reminds me.
We have quite a big lawn and quite a rubbish electric lawnmower. At some point one of the wheels will fall off and will have to be screwed back on again. Last year the handle came adrift and it had to be repaired with a screw and a roll of tape.
My wife was quite proud of that.
Despite only ever going in the garden to hang out the washing or take the sun she is quite particular about the lawn.
I prefer the slightly overgrown, wildlife lawn, a haven for all manner of wee beasties. She insists on the svelte, sleek, just trimmed look.
It's never going to look like Wimbledon or Lords because of the number of weeds. We had so many dandelions blooming in April I could have made dandelion wine, although after my experiences with elderflower champagne, related last week, it is probably just as well I did not.
Anyway, she has ways of making me mow the lawn. The first is an outright order but sometimes she says briskly, "Well, I'm going to mow the lawn" in that irritating way women have.
This is, of course, calculated to appeal to - or insult - my masculinity and get me out of my deckchair to spend a hour mowing up and down. Sometimes I call her bluff. Which is how she got to repair the mower on one of the occasions her bluff was called.
Incidentally, she always says she's going to clean the car and looks meaningfully at me. She's welcome to that little job if only as recompense for me having to get the car out of the drive.
Anyway, I've got to save my strength for cutting the lawn.
Then when you've mowed the lawn there is the problem of what to do with the cuttings. There is only so much you can compost and it means a trip to the tip to empty all your plastic bags in the skip.
Our lawnmower was handed down to us by one of the kids - actually, they parked it with us while moving house and it isn't in a fit state to be returned - and I'm not about to replace it.
At least it's better than the previous one which so scalped the lawn it turned everything brown within hours of using it. At least I've got used to the current mower's eccentricities.
Nothing, though, will beat my first-ever mower, a sold, metal push me-pull you British-made Qualcast which cut the lawn with that satisfying clatter associated with long Sunday afternoons and refreshing glasses of Pimms.
Sadly, first the roller fell off, then the clippings bin rusted away to nothing and the blades seized up.
It was beyond repair even if I could find someone to repair it.
The last time I examined a Qualcast in the shop it was mostly plastic and made in Germany.
My lawn has never been big enough to warrant a petrol driven jobbie, but if you're an MP who bought one on expenses you might be interested to know that Honda are offering a brand new 850 model to the owner of Britain's oldest, privately owned, working petrol lawnmower.
I never used to have a problem mowing the lawn. My first house only had a pocket handkerchief of a lawn and it never needed to be mown.
Instead, every spring and summer two guineapigs and one rabbit would graze and fertilise it in one go.
But that's given me an idea.
Has anyone got a sheep I can borrow?
What do you think? Add your comment below.
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Thursday 24 May 2012
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