Gardening

LAST week I attempted to tame our garden — assembling a brand new bush cutter — or glorified strimmer.

I am not the most practical person but after much cussing and around twice as long as the instructions suggested, there the great machine stood. A glorified stick with a heavy hood to cover the whirling blades.

I proudly announced that I was ready to do battle with the waving grass and marched out into the sunshine. I asked our girls (aged 6 and 4) to stand well back and so they beetled up onto the raised decking around their playhouse.

It was, I now admit, with some swagger that I plugged the beast in, disentangled the flex from my legs and heaved the harness around my waist. Our garden is barely the size of a ballot paper and I must admit that the juxtaposition of this mighty machine and the puny lawn made me feel temporarily like some Master of the Universe — I figured the carnage would be over in a matter of minutes.

I simultaneously squeezed the starter and safety switch — the mighty machine roared. I doubt that the thundering blades did in reality pull me off my feet but it sure felt like it. The whole contraption started to vibrate with jaw-dropping violence, to pitch and yaw. I became aware of my breathing and just as I was about to plunge the heaving head into the foliage it decided to part-company with the rest of the contraption.

Yes, my friends, a clear design fault was exposed with the head streaking off like a bolting rabbit into a nearby flower bed. The girls shrieked with laughter, did a lot of pointing and made some frankly unkind remarks — I say that one day they will better understand.