So I cut the front grass last night. I loathe our front garden. I mean real hatred. Not the nice new bit we did at the front but all that grass. All that undulating, uneven, moss-ridden, weed-bearing excuse for a lawn that, no matter which way I try, ends up causing the flymo to spew most of it’s contents all over the place, anywhere except into grass catching .. er .. bit.
I don’t actually mind CUTTING the grass, or edging the lawn, and I’m quite happy to do a wee bit of a tidy up afterwards but I spend more time brushing, raking, hoe-ing (?), and other -ing words than I do cutting and that just pisses me off.
We moved to a house, our first house, our first backdoor, our first garden, so we’d get some enjoyment out of it. I don’t. As, by the time I get home from work and have dinner, it’s about 7pm and the last thing I want to do is gardening. It’s a chore. Not an enjoyment. This usually means that if it is a nice weekend, we are out working in the garden. Not out sitting in the garden, reading books, sipping Pimms etc etc.
I think I’ll get the entire damn thing concreted. Or not.
It could be that I’m a bit grouchy because I didn’t get much sleep last night. THAT could be because the person lying next to me DIDN’T take my advice and ended up getting sunburn. THAT person now can’t sleep and she is keeping me awake too.
Bugger this. Time for a coffee and a think about moblogs. More on that later.