Great, the bloody lawns need mowing again. Didn’t I just do them? How many days ago was it? Seven? Six? Five?
Now I remember. It was last Saturday. I was in a mad panic – how unusual – because there was a shed-load of rain on the way. I figured if I didn’t get the lawns done before sunset, it would be three days at least before I’d have another chance. By then they would be an untameable wilderness, an impenetrable jungle, a goddamn grass-tastrophe. Couldn’t have that.
Mind you, doing all the lawns in one go is a bugger of a job. No wonder it took all day. That’s if all day starts at 10am, ends at 4pm and has an hour for lunch in the middle to watch an episode of Vera. Let’s call it half a day, though that is pretty much a quarter of a weekend.
Anyway, despite my fluster, I can definitely congratulate myself for getting the grass cut before it started raining, which was a relief. The worst bit was being chased by that wasp after I’d finished. It seemed pretty keen on me. Must be my good looks.
I wonder how many hours I’ve spent mowing Lush Places. At a guess, it must be millions; but then, I’m a journalist, and while journalists might like a good yarn, they’re not much good with figures.
Still, “Million-hour mowing marathon breaks record!” is a damn good headline even if I say so myself. But it’s probably a tiny bit of an exaggeration when I think about it.
I must have mowed the Lush Places lawns for more than 10,000 hours, I reckon. Didn’t that afro-haired, public-intellectual-cum-bullshit-artist Malcolm Gladwell come up with the “10,000-hour rule”, which posits that 10,000 hours is the amount of practice needed to become world class in any particular skill?
Well, if that’s true, it stands to reason that, as I am an absolutely amazing lawn-mower, definitely world class, maybe even galaxy class, I must have mowed the lawns for at least 10,000 hours. That logic is unassailable. Much like the quality of my mowing.
I am so good at it I could do it for my country, which makes me wish there was an Olympic lawn-cutting event, a mow-athlon, maybe, involving cutting 42km of grass in the quickest possible time, with extra points for the straightest lines.
I would almost certainly make the New Zealand Olympic mowing team, if there was a New Zealand Olympic mowing team. “Lush Places man wins gold for NZ.” Another great headline.
Anyway, none of this is getting the lawns done, and the grass looks as if it’s grown since this idle daydream began.
I wonder how quickly it does grow. In spring, it seems like it shoots up 100mm every few days. Now here’s a thought: what grows faster, the lawns or my hair? It’s got to be the grass, right, or I’d be mowing my head once a week as well. I’ll check on my phone. As I suspected, it’s grass, and it grows at only 25mm a week. That actually doesn’t seem very much.
Right, better get started. First things first: got to lug the jerry can out to the mower shed and fill the ride-on’s tank. Looks like I’ve got enough left to do the lawns around the house. Phew.
I do love the smell of petrol in the morning. Ha ha, that makes me sound like I’m starring in a movie, one called Apocalypse Mow! Classic.
Still, I do like the pong. Probably got something to do with all those weekends I pumped gas at a service station in St Heliers in my early 20s. Man, that was a great job: $16 an hour, all the junk food I could eat and no responsibility. Happy days.
Okay, time to mow. Choke out, engine speed set to maximum, turn the key. Oh dear. Why isn’t it starting? Surely the bloody battery can’t be flat?
