The LTLP catches me reading the paper.
“JONNY!!!” she shouts. “You get out there and mow the lawn as agreed, then when you’ve done that I want this room spotless!!!”
Somehow, without me noticing, she has turned into the big black lady off Tom and Jerry. I scuttle outside to the shed, where I will be safe.
The woods and fields at the back make the garden seem bigger than it is. And there’s a big shingled area, and a patio. Grass is a minority interest.
However, I bought a petrol mower this year. I didn’t really need it, but the point is that a petrol mower is the gardening equivalent of having a GREAT BIG ENORMOUS HUGE COCK.
It’s a great manly feeling. I manoeuvre it onto the lawn and give the ripcord a sharp tug. Not many people know this, but starting a petrol mower was the inspiration behind Cheryl Baker getting her skirt ripped off on the Eurovision Song Contest.
It throbs into life and I start giving the grass a good hard seeing-to.
The smell of petrol mingles with freshly cut grass as I wrestle with my machine on the sharp slope at the back. It’s like a David Cronenberg film. In a minute I will chat to my typewriter and shag Debbie Harry.
As ever, it’s over far too soon.
Exhausted, I lock her back in the shed.