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.
