As a consequence of recent sporadic heavy precipitation, my lawn is once more emerald of colour. Long term arid conditions for several weeks prior rendering it’s parched grass blades with a hue of mustard.
Thankfully now, though, the chromatic synergy created by the immeasurable number of blades bears the dark green splendour of actor Angelina Jolie’s irises. In the middle of last week it bore the yellow eyes of a penguin – That’s the aquatic bird not the biscuit, which I believe is bereft of sight organs.
I realise the first paragraph was an unnecessarily long winded way of relaying ‘My lawn’s green again cos it’s p***ed it down loads at the weekend’. However, I felt moved to pen a more creatively erudite descriptive than the low brow version of the previous sentence.
There you go, over a hundred words used and all I’ve managed to informational share is the grass’s now greener than on the other side of last Saturday. As my wife would sarcastically moot, “Why use a 12 word description when you can give the same message in 145 words?!”
I’m unaware if late, great US writer Mark Twain wrote about his lawn’s hue under varying meteorological conditions. He did once say “Never argue with a fool…. Onlookers may not be able to tell the difference.”……. So, whatever you do, avoid verbal disputes with me, I’ll only drag you down to my level.
I know the paragraph above is irrelevant to the topic of today’s narrative. However, rightly or wrongly, I thought you’d appreciate the heads up
US writer, author and activist Michael Pallon once joked a lawn was nature under totalitarian rule. It’s an interesting theory which, although delivered by the writer with tongue in cheek, has a degree of truth.
After all, to maintain control of the lawn, keeping it in line with my aesthetic horticultural goals, I mow it to a length of my choice on a weekly basis. This authoritarian dogma extending to indiscriminately killing off dissenters among the grass under my authority – Amongst them weeds, clover and moss.
As an aside, yesterday my son was chuffed to bits to find out a date he and his fiancée will be moving into their new house. I didn’t want to burst his bubble, but personally I’d have reined in the excitement until I’d heard that from a solicitor, as opposed to Mystic Meg!
Arriving at the conclusion of this monologue, I’m now sitting with my mum (Maggie) in the waiting room of her hairdresser’s salon. Mater’s crimper has just handed her a cup of tea, leading to Maggie thoughtfully proffering “Be careful with my tea, love…… I’d hate to scald anyone.”…… Nice to hear she now follows a more humane approach to burning people than in my childhood punishment days.
Incidentally, that’s a joke about the old lady putting cigarettes out on my siblings and me as kids. She smoked cigars!….. Seriously, though, she was the very anti-thesis of being a cruel mum; along with my old man, underpinning the family dynamic with warmth, love and security…….. My wife also spent her fledgling years in a warm home environment. Her mum was an arsonist!
Right, I’m going to bring this narrative to a close. I’m neglecting my duties as the totalitarian leader of my domestic flora and fauna….…. Now where’s my Soviet revolutionary uniform?!