I'm going to call today the Third Day of Spring. It has a certain damp chilliness, with forecast for paltry showers, and I remember last April was dry, an ill wind for summer rains. But grasses that do not belong to the class of Creeping, have decided to green up and grow. With the result that a being becomes inextricably drawn to search out hammer and tong with which to reacquaint devices that cut grass with their original purpose.
All very well sitting there on a flat tire, gathering mouse nest, hoping to be mistaken for an ornamental. And true there is a part of me that also yearns for a bio-engineering miracle of a grass that can cut itself. But I have found that when approaching a dormant mowing machine, who in mowing machine years is venerable to the point of geriatric, best to do so with the absolute confidence of a drill sergeant, otherwise things can get very ugly, cruel words exchanged, and terrible grumpiness.