I should start this entry with a disclaimer. The events and characters appearing on this page bear no relation to any persons living or dead whatsoever, even if they sound a bit like some people you may know living in Cornwall.
I just had to get that in, in case Mr K is reading this, and the title of this particular blog entry has set a large furrow on his brow. Because today did not go well. And the ride on mower was largely to blame.
It all started when we put the offer on the house. Part of the negotiations included the cooker and the ride on lawn mower, the ultimate Country Living boy’s toy. Regular readers may remember that at Kirton Towers I was largely, some might say solely, responsible for mowing the grass. I made it abundantly clear on moving to a property with three quarters of an acre sloping down a hill, that this would no longer fall under my jurisdiction. Mr K was happy enough with the arrangement.
Until the sun shone. And the rain fell. And so on, until the last fortnight when the rapid upward advancement of the grass could no longer be ignored. Or at least, not with a clean conscience.
And I knew that the forthcoming chore was troubling him. Would he be able to remember how to work the mower? Would he tumble down into the brambles, never to be seen again?
The forecast for this week was good. The job could not be delayed for much longer…
But then yesterday he had a day of sorting out my company finances, a fine and noble job that could in no way be termed a lawn mowing avoidance task.
And so to today.
I had a day of meetings, arriving home later afternoon in eager anticipation.
The first thing I noticed on pulling up outside the house, is what a lovely day it was. The second, that the grass looked pretty much as I left it this morning…But wait, on closer scrutiny there was a definite track around the outside of the lawn, as if someone had started the job but then rushed away to tackle something more important.
On entering the house, I noticed the lawn mower manual, along with the enigmatic scrawl ‘Clive 3pm Wednesday’.
With the deductive powers of a short, moustachioed Belgian I quickly realised that things had not gone according to plan, that the machinery had revolted at the final hurdle.
Mr K was not amused. (Truth be told, he’s still not amused.)
Suffice to say that after a jolly and optimistic start, things had gone kerplunk that shouldn’t, oil had ended up in places it shouldn’t, smoke had ensued and the job abandoned for a bad deal, followed by consultation with the aforementioned Clive.
Hardly worth getting out of bed for. Particularly gruelling when not enough time had been spent in bed anyhow after a night shift.
So the chore, far from having been tackled and ticked off, persists in its growing need to be attended to, with no closure in sight.
But what I haven’t told Mr K is that I spotted two rabbits grazing on the grass this morning (do rabbits graze?). I figure it can only be a matter of days before the problem’s devoured entirely…