The Lawn

I’m looking out of my window. The garden. It’s there, being a garden. And the lawn? Yeah, that’s there, the grass growing like fuck. It needed a mow. It needed a mow but I didn’t need to mow it. Being arsed you see, that’s the thing. 

I went downstairs to make a brew. Mary was looking out of the kitchen window. 

—Lawn needs a cut, she says. 

—Yeah, I’ll get to it. 

—It’s a dry day, today. 

I’m not daft. That’s how women tell you to do things. It’s not a Mary thing. She does it. But so do all women. I’m sure they are born with the: “tell men to do things when they don’t want to” skill. 

—Yeah, might do it tomorrow, I say. 

—it’s forecast to rain.

—Is it? 

—Yes. 

I check on the Met office app. She’s right, of course she is. I sigh like a deflating tractor tyre. 

—I’ll do it now, then. 

—Okay. 

Off she goes to clean something or other. She’ll be busy, I know that. 

I get the mower out of the garage. It has a moan. I sure it does. 

—How d’yer think I feel, pal? I mutter. 

It doesn’t answer, it’s a mower. I look at the lawn. It’s a serious hill. We live in a part of Coventry that was an old mining area. It’s got hills. Well, lumps. Hills sounds a bit dramatic. 

Our back garden slopes from the back door up to our neighbours fence. And I do mean up. Fuck it, get on with it. 

I plug the extension in, then the mower. Wish I had one of those fancy G-Tech ones with no lead. Fire up the mower. It roars and wakes the birds up in the hedgerow. They fuck off sharpish, squawking at me. 

Off I go, down the hill. It’s damp. The mower growls and moans. I do the bit at the bottom and then turn back up the hill. Here we go. My shoulders are already aching. 

Push. Shove. Push and another shove. The grass is still wet. It’s not mowing a lawn, it’s ploughing a field. The mower is having a louder moan. I switch it off. Take off the grass bin. Wet grass. Jammed up the arse of the mower. Jammed everywhere. I pull it out. My hands turn green. 

I empty the grass bin into the garden wheelie bin. Back to it. Push. Shove. Clear the wet grass. Push, fucking shove. My shoulders feel like I’ve been lifting weights. 

I stop. 

Have a look. Yeah, nearly done. Do that bit over by the border. Off I go. Sideways across the hill. That’s a bit easier. 

Right, fuck it, done. I can say it was too wet. It’ll have to do for now. 

Empty the grass bin. Unjam wet grass from the mowers arse again. My hands now look like the hands of an alien. Unplug. Carry the heavy bastard mower back into the garage. Wind the extension back up and put it away. 

Mary comes out. I watch her scanning, to see if I missed a bit. 

—It was bloody wet, I’ll have to do it again in a couple of days. 

—Yeah, looks okay, she says. 

I show her my hands. 

—Wash them out here, I don’t want the sink getting all messed up. 

—Right. 

I turn the outside tap on. Try rinse the green off my hands without soaking my feet. Fuck it, it won’t come off. 

I creep into the kitchen. Mary is busy upstairs. We are on, mate. Over to the sink. A big squirt of Fairy Liquid and a good scrub. The green comes off under the running tap. 

I wipe down, in case I made a mess. Look out of the kitchen window. The lawn. It looks shite. It was too wet to cut. Fuck it, it’ll do for now. 

Mary walks into the kitchen as I’m drying my hands on an old tea towel. 

—Put that straight in the wash, she says. 

—Brew, love? 

—Yes please. I’ll be down in a minute. 

—Righto. 

I get the kettle on, rolling the aches out of my shoulders. The air smelled of freshly cut grass. The smug bastard. I could almost hear it growing again.