There are, apart from the obvious, certain things which set men wide apart from women. One is the ability to follow a game of cricket. Arbitrary rules and indolent play over several languid days, frequent breaks for tea-and-sandwiches, several changes of all-white clothes, and indeterminate outcome? That pastime could never have been invented by the practical, efficient, gluten-avoiding, answer-demanding sex.
Similarly, the ability to wallow for hours in the bath, listening to commentary on cricket and perfecting the art of tap-turning-with-one-toe is for chaps. Edward assures me that the addition of a sock, preferably a single gorgeous cashmere Christmas one, stuffed in the overflow to ensure maximum water levels, is sublime. And invented by males at boarding school where the hot water was seriously rationed. I have pointed out that this is 2014 and he is a grown man with charge of the energy supplies to this house, but I think he still enjoys a quiet British rage against the machine, and who am I to deny him?
He was happily swilling about this morning, reading the Delhi Times online, when I wrecked the day by announcing I was going to cut the grass. This too is a man's job and he was immediately torn. Relinquish the perfect, dangerously-filled bath or let someone loose on the lawn who may leave it with wobbly stripes? In the end, the bath won and I was allowed the key to The Shed.
I made a complete hash of it, of course. I swerved round clumps of pretty daisies and went across instead of down and stopped to throw balls for the dog which left alarming bald patches because I forgot to stop the machine. The MCC groundsman would have fainted.
I did learn, though, why men insist it's their job. The sun shone, the smell of cut grass is legendarily sublime; the noisy mower meant I could ignore the squabble over who finished the milk that floated out of the open kitchen doors; emptying soft thuds of emerald cuttings into the compost heap was both delicious and satisfying; the smug cup of tea afterwards was heaven.
I've also developed a satisfying old-man grunt when I get up, reminding everyone that I've worked hard and I'm feeling a little stiff. My turn in the bath, I think.
I believe I just commented. I shall have to return and see if it actually registered.
ReplyDeleteDang, my good one didn't show up. Never mind. I love your writing.
ReplyDeleteWhat a bore - never mind, I love your writing too, so worth the technical glitch for a nice bit of touchy-feely ether-based mutual admiration! Hope all is well in your world. x
DeleteWell done on discovering the joys of a good mowing! For years, I relied on my husband to do the mowing with a very inefficient dino of a mower that required gas (petrol) and manly muscles to get the think started (what a horrid thing it was for me to try and pull on that dratted cord!). I never actually liked the way he mowed, leaving bits and pieces and messes where they should not be. One day, he too had enough of the nasty mower and went "green" and ordered a fantastic rechargable battery powered thing that was cordless and started at the touch of a button. I'm happy to report I've been the resident mower ever since and love every minute of it.
ReplyDeletePetrol mower! I have enough trouble filling the car. I would live in an actual jungle in that case. Like the thought of battery; the cord made me very nervous. I like your style...
DeleteI remember one time I actually had control of the machine and refused to go with the mandated and approved path of the machine. I zigged and zagged. The frowns were horrible. It was bliss as I knew it was simply grass and it would grow again.
ReplyDeleteYes, that's true, it does. Like hair. But easy (for chaps) to forget when you're looking at the horror of the zags and contemplating Pimms.
DeleteI hate the smell of newly mowed grass - it reminds me of my first day at school in Singapore, (which was more than a few days ago), but which lingers to this day. I love lawns, but I think we have something called a gardener to take care of them.
ReplyDeleteAh. That's pretty rare; you must have hated that school. Sympathy. I have a gardener too but his wife had unexpectedly bought theatre tickets and insisted he went. He was furious. He hates indoors as much as you hate That Smell.
DeleteHello Elizabeth:
ReplyDeleteWe regret to say that we should both choose to languish in a warm bath, to which additional hot water is added from time to time, than to be out with a motor mowing machine cutting grass. Far too many things, as you perhaps discovered, to go wrong and then, we imagine, the constant fear that the engline will cut out and fail to restart.
In all of our too many years of gardening, when the garden was open to the public several times a week, and therefore the grass needed to appear immaculate, this was an area of work we always delegated. We suggest you hand the key of the shed back to Edward forthwith.
Kellemes húsvéti únnepeket!
Lovely people! He took it back forthwith and praised my efforts in exactly the voice I used to use when the kitchen had been decimated and there was a flour-covered child with a small burned brown object for me to eat.
DeleteWhat does the last line mean?
From that last paragraph, I have a vision of you turning into the 'stuff and nonsense' characters from French and Saunders.
ReplyDeleteI don't think I have ever mown a lawn, not stuffed an overflow with a cashmere sock, I need to rethink my priorities.
ps: with regard to your comment on my post, the weapon was indeed labelled as a bollock dagger. Complete with scabbard.
Darling girl, nowt wrong with your priorities if you've avoided ruining good socks and doing manual stuff in favour of art galleries and bollock-stabbers. We could all learn from you!
DeleteI came over on a link from Tish's blog. Now I've wasted/spent/enormously enjoyed an hour of reading your archives. Arrived at the one from 2012 where you asked for advice about writing. Read the comments for that one. Felt like a kick in the pants. I'm dithering. Procrastinating. Organizing. Finding excuses. No more. Thank you.
ReplyDeleteLorrie, how lovely of you to pop by and even lovelier to leave a comment. You can see how long the getting-the-finger-out chat took me to act on, but feel free to come back when you need to! Email me if you like, a few of us have started a little online writing group with virtual checking-up. what are you writing?
DeleteThat's part of the problem - I don't know yet. Fits and starts of this and that. 50,000 words of a novel done. A few articles published. Doubting and faith.
DeleteCrack on, girl - what's the worst that could happen?
ReplyDelete