To strim, perchance to swear

It looks like a dream when it’s done, but there is nothing meditative about cutting acres of grass using your body and a machine.

And there is nothing ladylike about the process either. I believe the cutting machine and the harness are created about the male form. And not for slight females who will insist on doing a man’s job.

That’s where the swearing comes in. Aching back, aching hip (for some reason), neck muscles screaming. Ah the joys of having acres and acres of land.

I was starting to fantasize about buying a herd of goats. They would make light work of the brambles that grow so lustily out of the walls of all the terraces down below the house.

They would probably make light work of the mulberries and the cherries too. But just imagine sitting down on soft grass and listening to goats doing the work for you. Bliss.

I didn’t take my camera down to photograph the marvellous progress this afternoon. And nothing will induce me to stagger down there and snap a post strimming shot. I want to sit down. I want a beer.

As illustration you get the before shot of the corner of our house that is about to get a cubic metre of gravel dumped  on it tomorrow morning.

And Manu can wheelbarrow the rest from the top of the road down into the barn. I shan’t be lifting anything heavier than a recalcitrant cat, a beer bottle and a pair of lightweight secateurs.