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.

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