Monday, 27 October 2014

The Sunday grass-cutting ritual

Our having been away, the grass was long.  Yesterday was the first day it was anywhere near dry enough to cut, so, fortified by lunch, I sallied forth.  The front cut OK, but when I tackled the back, the transmission on the mower refused to engage when I released the clutch.  I managed to shove the mower across about a third of the surface before throwing in the towel, and getting out the old electric mower.  What ought to have been a simple thirty minute job turned into a messy hour's worth, since the electric mower, which clogs up at the slightest provocation, kept needing to be cleared out.  The back yard looks like a battlefield.

During the insomniac hours, I formed, with the aid of the iPad, preliminary views on potential replacements for the recalcitrant petrol mower, focusing on an outfit not far away in the next county that offered to accept trade-ins.  [Trades-in?  Oh, who cares?]  The good news is that it was a glorious bright autumn morning, and the drive was pleasant.  Part of the motivation for trading in was to get a mower with a self-starter, since the recoil starter on the current mower threatens to put my back hors de combat each time I have to tug the damn' rope to restart the brute.  Scraped down old mower, loaded same into the car, rattled out into the wilds.  Explained requirements to salesman, whose professional advice, somewhat sub-edited was 'Don't bother: they're shite.'  So the petrol mower is back with the charmless local fettlers for the second time this year, and we'll maybe get it back in time for a final cut or two for the season.

What I've learned from  the experience is that the cold I picked up in Portugal was an industrial strength one.  It takes little or no exertion to bring me into a sweat.  But I am sneezing less, and just hope I'm not in for another 100-day cough.  Pauvre de moi.  Is there anything so pathetic as a bloke with a cold?

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