If you seem to be in charge of the garden, it's great to have a man who does the lawn. There is after all so much else to do.
Designing the garden. Digging it, weeding it. Pulling out big roots and dividing them up and replanting them in places around the borders where they can disrupt other things. Building a compost heap; turning the compost heap, watering it and after months and months of this distributing it in heavy bucketloads around the garden.
Heaving tubs about. Cutting things, especially things that are out of reach; shaping things; encouraging something to grow and then pruning it. Digging out large cobblestones and bricks that have somehow got in amongst the soil. The tormenting logistics of sowing and growing on and planting out. The Garden Centre.
So I am grateful to have a man who does the lawn, wearing goggles as he first slices at the edges with his strimmer as protection from the flying chips off the brick edging; slicing at the long grass and peonies and roses, hacking into geraniums and decapitating delphiniums and foxgloves. 'They shouldn't hang over the edge.'
And he doesn't rest on laurels but hurriedly stashes away the strimmer and roars about with the mower, up and down, up and down very fast so as to arrive at the object of his exercise: the smug cold lager downed while admiring his lawn.
Although he always does the lawn there are things he doesn't do.
Levelling it. Pulling out coarse grasses and big dandelions. Weeding it generally. Sowing bare patches. But when I do them he brings me out a beer.