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He Who Laughs Last

This morning, I undertook the horticultural equivalent of painting the Forth Bridge, when manually removing the plethora of weeds squatting on my lawn. The task of hand eradication necessitated by not possessing a chemical alternative.

The products I required not stocked at the small store where I purchase comestibles. And, until yesterday, I was loathed to buy them online due to the naughty fellows using their COVID-19 leverage to ridiculously inflate cost.

The latter a strategy I’d employed until surveying the abundance of creepers and poor health of my back grass. However, as this lawn weeder/feeder will take a week to arrive, this morning I was moved to manually shift as many of the critters as possible.

The lawn improvement product I bought, at £12.50, was the cheapest I could find online. I’ve not heard of the brand before, with it’s quirky title along the lines of ‘Uncle Bert’s Yard Enhancer’. With this item unfamiliarity I’m hoping the product shipped is genuinely lawn weeder/feeder seed. Not that, as I write, Uncle Bert is packaging the contents of his blender after obliterating a loaf of bread for onward delivery to yours truly.

While manually removing these weeds from my back grass, I was convinced every time I eradicated one lawn creeper another appeared behind my back. A notion crossing my mined when, even after removing around forty weeds, there genuinely didn’t seem any less of them inhabiting the emerald landscape.

Like participating in a half-assed horticultural version of ‘Whack a Mole’, this paradox truly messed with my mind. But I’ll have the last laugh you smug lawn loungers. When my bread crumbs….. errrrr, I mean chemical weeding seed arrives you’ll be laughing on the other side of you dandelion faces.

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In a week or so, the sadistic pleasure I’ll take from exterminating your ugly leaves and roots will manifest manic laughter similar to Vincent Price at the end of his rap on Michael Jackson’s Thriller.

After finishing this polemic targetting horticulture’s worst, I intend to mow the aforementioned area of grass. While mowing I’ll afford a contrite apology to the piece of land for my inexcusable negligence. My feckless procrastination leaving what is ordinarily an uplifting emerald canvas, with the pitted visage sported by a clumsy beekeeper.

Anyhow, as a consequence of my half completed morning chore, my back lawn now exhibits more holes than a cheese grater, in addition to the 20-30 weeds which escaped this morning’s cull. The green rectangle of land now appearing to’ve been victim of digging by a brood of midget moles.

Right, I’m going to conclude this journal of horticultural maintenance angst. I’m returning outside to subject myself to further imaginary taunts from the remaining lawn weeds, as riding roughshod over and around them with mower.

When the weeder/feeder arrives, though, as long as Uncle Bert hasn’t sent me breadcrumbs, the remaining creepers will suffer a slow and painful death. Not the quick manual, less humane, eradication suffered by their cousins this morrow……. He who laughs last, and all that!

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