Humanity is addicted to grass. If it be the smell, the gentle fur coat, or the occasional playful scratch that entices us for more. The fact that it is green is merely an aesthetic bonus. Children frolic amongst it, our four-legged friends douse their torrential excrement upon it; we cannot live without it. Grass is here, they have planted their roots, and they are staying until the surviving hippies have run out of weed as their most valuable natural resource.
I have three small patches of lawn surrounding my estate. The estate is a self-containing granny-flat, second from the road. The houses down the driveway look almost identical. If my guests squinted they'd think these houses came with MacDonalds happy meals, or could even be the happy meals themselves. It would not surprised me to find them exclaim how the lawn would appear to be a blanket of fries surrounding the burger-like houses. Or when it rains it would seem as if a cup of coke has been spilled all over the tray, making the fries and burgers turn all soggy.
During my nine month stay I have come to realise having three patches of soggy lawn is like caring for three small insolent children. The reason why they're insolent would probably be because I ignore their every single need and wish. I was never exceedingly brilliant with kids anyway. During my first month of stay I did not tend to the lawn once. I would let it grow and prosper under the summer sun like the pit hairs of a Mexican gypsy woman, whilst convincing myself that it still looked beautiful and I would not mind cohabiting with it for the rest of my life. I think I'd have a better time dealing with an over growth of pit hairs than small whiny children. Though as luck may have it, both may not be mutually exclusive.
My neighbour clearly did not appreciate the carefully orchestrated art form that is my Mexican gypsy lawn. After three month of free, unrestrained growth an anonymous neighbour complained to my property manager regarding its rather distasteful condition. I tried to argue that it was only a matter of aquired taste, one should not judge a book by its cover, and the lawn was actually beautiful on the inside. My proclamations were deemed ludicrous, and I was ordered to have the lawn shaved at once or face an emotional separation from my loving abode.
To the phone book I went, and to Mr Green I called. He decided that it would be most wise and generous to offer twenty dollars to mow the three stamp sized lawns outside. I though this was ludicrous, even more ludicrous than the excuses I tried to pan my property manager with not five minutes ago. Twenty dollars was a small fortune to me. I could survive a week with twenty dollars, though with a much more fibrous diet than I'd like. I eventually found another gardener, visibly younger, more desperate and more malnourished than Mr Green; he was able to mow the lawn for half the price. His dietary intake must consist of twice the fibre of mine.
These days I mow my own lawn for the fear of an over fibrous diet. Myself - with the mind of a juvenile octogenarian. The same mind which would suffer at the mere thought of taking care of a single cactus. The one mind that would have an aneurysm should I even contemplated the mere possibility of manicuring the lawn myself. I didn't care anymore. I dove in with the sense of duty and unrivalled enthusiasm that I once had for waiting in lines. Now mowing the lawn is not so bad.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
1 comment:
Bro, your writing has stopped, I am concerned... perhaps the neighbours "got" you for your seeming lack of lawn care?
Post a Comment