The grass needed cutting at least a week ago. Hell, it needed cutting nearly a month ago.
But I'm a traditionalist. And I saved the chore until today.
Because no matter how fucked up the seasons get; despite global warming and the vagaries of mother nature; and regardless of the actions of my candy-ass, anal retentive neighbours, I will never, ever, cut my lawn for the first time in a new year -- before the first day of bloody May.
To mine own self, I be true.
Llewellen: Put the machine in the shed and fetch us both a pint. Fuck it. Make it a couple of pints. The smell of freshly coiffed grass gives me a thirst.
2 comments:
Due to frequent coiffing, our lawns are the the most sexually frustrated plant-life on the planet.
Let. Them. Grow.
Ha. The grass is frustrated; I'm frustrated having to cut it. The only party not frustrated is the City. They fine you for not keeping the grass below a certain height.
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