The Vertical Expedition

The thing about lawns is that they need mowing…

This is one of those fundamental truths of the universe, like the fact that toast always lands butter-side down, or that you will inevitably forget why you’ve walked into a room. I had a spare few minutes, which is to say I had cunningly avoided everything else that needed doing, and decided it was time to tackle ours.

I assembled my equipment with the methodical care of someone who has learned, through bitter experience, that preparation is everything. Ice picks. Crampons. A flask of tea (Yorkshire, naturally—one must maintain standards even in the face of mortal peril). A trauma pack medical kit. Thermals. The sort of kit that says “I am going somewhere where oxygen becomes more of a suggestion than a guarantee.”

Because our lawn, you see, isn’t so much a lawn as a vertical expedition waiting to happen. If Everest had suburban aspirations, it would want to be our lawn. I’d suggested to Mary that we hire it out to climbing clubs—diversify, monetise, that sort of thing—but midway through my PowerPoint presentation (complete with projected revenue streams), she performed that peculiar eye-rolling manoeuvre that suggested she was experiencing some form of optical malfunction, and wandered off. I remain convinced there’s money in it. We could even make the expedition leaders sign liability waivers.

But today, regrettably, it was just me and the mower and several hundred feet of near-vertical grass that had clearly been conducting evolutionary experiments when no one was looking.

The lawn mower attempted to hand me a sick note. It was a pitiful effort, really—something about mechanical stress and undue gradient exposure. I wasn’t buying it. I dragged the malingering machine out and aimed it optimistically upward, in the general direction of “summit.” It responded with a cough that suggested emphysema and a wheeze that implied I should probably update my will.

Halfway up—or possibly two-thirds, altitude affects your judgment—I encountered a flock of migratory birds. They seemed genuinely startled to find a human at their cruising altitude, particularly one pushing a lawn mower. We exchanged awkward glances. One of them might have asked for directions. It was hard to tell.

At approximately Base Camp 3 (the bit by the forgotten garden gnome), the mower gave up entirely. Just stopped. Died, really, though I’m assured it’s only resting. I had no choice but to abseil back down Lawn Mountain with it in tow, which is significantly harder than it sounds when the thing weighs approximately the same as a small car and has wheels that rotate in directions not strictly recognised by physics.

My second ascent of the day was conducted with a pair of shears. Manual labour, the old-fashioned way, which is what people did before they invented machines to do the complaining for them.

Once the lawn looked sufficiently trimmed—or at least looked like I’d had a go at it, which amounts to the same thing from the ground—I made my descent. I packed away the shears, oxygen tanks, and carabiners with the quiet satisfaction of someone who has achieved something.

When Mary got home, I naturally regaled her with the full tale of the expedition, complete with hand gestures for the tricky overhang near the shed. She gave me a look. You know the one. The look that suggests you might, possibly, perhaps be making rather a meal of things. Which seemed a bit rich, frankly, coming from someone who hadn’t met the Sherpa at Base Camp 2.

Though, in hindsight, he might have been the postman.