THE first cut is the deepest, sang Cat Stevens. He doesn't know the half of it. He should see our back lawn.
When the weather perked up a week ago, I discarded long trousers, went into shorts for the summer and bought a new Bosch mower from Amazon, the online warehouse people.
This purchase was necessary because the mower we bought last year simply wasn't tough enough to cope with the amount, texture and lumpiness of our grass. It only worked if you pulled it, rather than pushed, and without the attachment of the grass collection box, so that cut bits were flung out as if it was the planting season.
Buying the new and more powerful machine from Amazon was, I thought, quite appropriate, as the resultant badly cut turf is now fast growing into a rain forest. It was either that or a machete. Or a scythe.
The signs, at first, were propitious. The sun shone and the mower arrived in a white van the next day. My legs didn't flinch in the shorts when I took the dog for a walk. Come to that, neither did the people I passed, although one or two diverted their gaze.
And then, of course, the weather changed again. A Siberian chill factor returned, the skies clouded with foreboding and I recalled my mother's warning about not casting a clout until May was out. I also wondered, what exactly was a clout?
The shorts were abandoned and I went back into thermals and track suits and sweaters, binned the salad and got out soup and jam pudding with custard. The mower remained in its box. Winter had returned with a vengeance as if it had been playing a trick. It had hidden for a day then jumped out and shouted gotcha.
It has made me wonder whether the Government have gone far enough with the winter fuel payments for pensioners. Perhaps in this election period of promise anybody anything, some party should commit to providing spring fuel payments and summer fuel payments, as well, because the alternative is to light the barbecue in the living room to get warm as you have your tea.
