mower – derrickjknight

Today was spent on garden maintenance, the vast majority of which was carried out by Jackie. She was engaged in planting, weeding, and moving of self-seeded treasures, such as the host of hellebores that crop up everywhere.

In preparation for Aaron’s laying of the gravel, she applied megadeath to the various patches of grass, brambles, and dandelions, and other weeds clinging to the back drive. This in the form of diluted DeadFast weedkiller concentrate.

Some of the fence posts miraculously being held up along this drive are very worm-eaten, giving them an appearance as sculptured as the bark of the birch tree, now in leaf. This particular bright magenta crop of honesty flowers will not appear again for another two years, as the plant is biennial, flowering one year and seeding the next.

My major task was mowing the lawn. Well, not exactly mowing, and not exactly a lawn. We have an odd-shaped patch of grass, the main purpose prior to our arrival probably having been for canine convenience. It is a small area bounded by flower beds and paths, and bearing benches, a Victorian chimney plot planter encircled by pretty round stones, a couple of shrubs, and a small stump. A mower cannot reach everything without putting the blades at risk. We have long-handled shears for cutting the edges.

Now, in my previous life, I have been accustomed to heavy duty Honda petrol mowers that can produce stretches of nice straight lines in which one can take pride if one possesses a large enough lawn.

Last year we used a strimmer to shave this little patch, but that tended to become a little heavy, especially for Jackie, by the end of the job, so we bought a small electric mower more suitable for the task; and the pair of shears. I had not used the machine before today, so my first task was to turn it on. After several failed attempts I managed the synchronisation of button and lever which was required for successful operation. Having established that, I set about the numerous edges with the shears. By the time I was about three quarters of the way through this task I began to consider that I was doing this in the wrong order. I was probably shearing rather more than I needed, and it might be easier to mow first and clip afterwards.

For some reason best known to herself Jackie has the impression that I make life hard for myself by the methods I use to carry out tasks. This is on occasion mentioned when I fill my food plate from one of her casseroles. My plate stays at my place setting and I carry the food across the table from the dish. This requires some not always successful dexterity in ensuring that I do not spill any on the cloth. My lady thinks that it might be more straightforward to take the plate to the dish.

So, there I am, contemplating the grass-cutting, and along comes the head gardener. ‘Sweetheart,’ she trills, ‘are you going to do all that by hand?’. I explained my method, and that, of course, she was right.

The application of the mower went off rather smoothly, although I did occasionally have to extricate myself from the cable which seemed to persist in ensnaring my legs.

We don’t cut all the grass in the garden, for we have a number of ornamental varieties that are small enough not to require it.

This evening we dined on chicken Kiev, cauliflower cheese, carrots, beans, and mashed potato; all to Jackie’s usual high standard. She drank Gallo Muscato. I didn’t.

12th July 2014 I began the day by posting yesterday’s entry. This afternoon Jackie drove me to New Milton where I boarded the train to Waterloo for a trip to Shampers, Simon Pearson’s wine bar in Kingly Street, where Michael was holding his second 50th birthday celebration.

To walk my normal route to Green Park, turn right along Piccadilly, cross this thoroughfare into Air St, turn left up Regent St, and right then left into Kingly St, on a Saturday afternoon in midsummer, is definitely not to be recommended unless you are intent on recording the experience. But I was. So I did.

The walk along South Bank and up the steps onto and then across Westminster Bridge was like taking on the combined international rugby forwards of the Six Nations and those of the Southern Hemisphere.

A packed speedboat sped under the bridge while cruise ships unloaded one herd of passengers and took on board another. Tourists were wielding every kind of device capable of taking photographs, a

good number of them being selfies, two of the subjects of which claimed to be Absolutely Fabulous, and the other Knight Style.

No-one appeared to see the huge notices closing the crossings at Whitehall and Palace St instructing people to use the underpasses. But perhaps that was just for runners in the 10k run that featured in the small print. St James’s Park was a little easier, but still packed with

people lovingly basking in the sunshine.

Motionless herons kept an eye out for prey from the lake.

Piccadilly and Regent St were almost as crowded as Westminster Bridge.

In Aire St a group were perched on the pavement sketching the view of Regent St through an arch. Having arrived at the venue 90 minutes early, I walked around the corner and sat for a while in Golden Square

where two low-flying aircraft had come to grief; spectators communed with the sculpture; and table tennis was in progress.

The assembled company at Shampers were Michael, Heidi, Alice, Emily and her boyfriend Sam; Louisa and Errol; Mat and Tess; Eddie and his wife Rebecca; and two other friends whose names I can’t recall, but whose faces I know well.

Eddie is Michael’s lifelong friend who often stayed with us in Soho in the 1970s, as, of course, did Matthew and Becky. It was natural with that grouping to recount Soho stories. One I haven’t featured before is the tale of the mechanical digger. One afternoon I was horrified to peer out of our first floor window and see one of these clanking its steady way across the yard, its grabber reaching out like something from ‘War of the Worlds’. The cab was empty. Michael and Matthew were vainly attempting to bring it to a halt. I am not sure who reached up and turned it off. Perhaps it was me. This evening Mat revealed that this parked municipal vehicle had been started with the birthday boy’s front door key. Then things began to teeter out of control.

This narrative prompted Eddie, who had also stayed in many other places with us, to confess about the ride-on mower in Wootton Rivers. He had apparently gone for a ride on this sometime in that same decade, had approached the church, lost control, and crunched the stone wall. Eddie’s recollection is that the wall was undamaged, but that the mower was rather crumpled. It still worked, however, so the miscreant parked it in the garage and hoped that Jessica’s father would not notice.

Eddie’s optimism was not entirely misplaced, as was demonstrated by Matthew’s next story. The owner of the mower, you see, was not exactly in complete command of his vehicle. One day our son was playing in the garden with a group of Pearson cousins. Suddenly panic, and cries of ‘Clear the lawn, everything off the lawn’, set in. Small and medium sized children rushed to and fro, hither and thither, grabbing toys, balls, you name it. ‘And Louisa’, someone yelled, and scooped up the crawling infant. It was then that Matthew saw the mower hove into view. ‘The beach ball’, someone shouted.

Too late. The mower steamed over and flattened the large round beach ball. It is believed that the driver remained unaware of the tragedy.

These, and many other stories were enlivened by various excellent wines chosen by Eddie, the professional. I was particularly taken with the chilled Brouilly.

The food was superb, My starter was squid, followed by grilled sardines, chips, and salad, some of which Louisa snaffled. I had to desert the party before the cheese and dessert.

I walked back to Piccadilly Circus and took the Bakerloo Line to Waterloo, and thence to New Milton and from there home by a Galleon taxi.

Sitting opposite me on the train from Waterloo were a young Chinese woman attempting to sleep, and an older Englishwoman attempting to talk. I returned the conversation for a while then indicated my desire to return to my book. Soon peace reigned as my companions slept. They departed at Southampton Central, but very soon afterwards I had to abandon the book, as the train filled up to capacity, and a drunken, acknowledgedly ‘chatty’ young man full of Jameson’s sought to entertain us all. Giving up, I closed ‘December’ by Elizabeth H. Winthrop.

The taxi firm is to be recommended. They operate from a shed outside New Milton station.

Tag: mower

‘Are You Going To Do All That By Hand?’

Losing Control