Jonny McCambridge: The first cut (of the lawn) is the hardest

‘I see the next-door neighbours have cut their grass,’ she begins.

‘Uh huh.’

‘And the man across the way has mowed his.’

‘Uh huh.’

‘And the wee couple up the road …’

At the risk of this becoming boringly repetitive, it is easier to simply state that the point is that every house in the estate has a freshly mown lawn, other than ours.

The next step in the ritual is that my wife will begin, in a transparent attempt to shame me, to threaten to cut our grass herself.

Every year I tell myself privately to call her bluff. Every year I crack under the pressure and reluctantly haul the old mower, covered in cobwebs and bugs, from the dusty shed.

Despite my unwillingness, the truth is that I have a long history with mowing lawns. When I was a boy, growing up in the country, my da used to give me pocket money for pushing the petrol mower around.

We had large grass areas at our rural house and at the end of the job I remember my hands were always stained green.

In my teenage years I worked during the summer holidays as a labourer on building sites (yes, really!). One of my allotted tasks was to cut the grass in the newly built estates.

This allowed me to use a ride-on mower, which was about as close to fun as work can get. This theory held true right up to the point when I rode the mower right into the middle of a stream and had to be towed out by the digger man.

But mowing my own lawn is a different matter. I remember keenly buying my first (and so far, only) lawn mower. It seemed like a rite of passage, an entry point into grown-up responsibility.

I knew what I wanted. I desired a top-quality mower, but only had the intention of paying out a very small sum of money (thus providing a glimpse into the economic illiteracy which has plagued my life).

I went to the large DIY store and wandered up and down the aisles, eyeing the machinery.

Then I saw it. A fine-looking green electric mower covered in blades of grass.

There was a label on the mower which read: ‘Reduced from £125 to £20 due to faulty grass box.’

I examined the mower. I checked the grass box. I attached it, unattached it, attached it again. All seemed fine.

I called over a staff member.

‘What’s the fault with this mower?’ I asked.

The serious shop assistant explained to me that the mower was not faulty. The day previously a man had bought it at full price but returned irate a couple of hours later insisting that the box would not stay on.

The staff offered to show him how to fix the grass box to the mower, but he was too angry and demanded the full return of his money.

Therefore, the assistant explained to me, they had no choice but to sell it at a knock-down price as faulty, even though it worked perfectly.

I promptly bought the mower. I have had it for 10 years. The grass box still attaches as well as it did when I purchased it. I expect the box will still fit long after I am gone.

However, even though I now owned a mower, it did not necessarily mean that I always used it.

There was a period, when I was richer than I am now, when I used to pay a man to cut my grass.

However, this extravagance had to end when I lost my well-paying job. My gardener was sympathetic to my plight and also did not want to lose the business, so he offered me a job working for him. Cutting grass.

I considered this. It appeared that what this would mean would be that he would be paying me in order that I could then pay him to cut my grass. It seemed overly complicated and I politely declined.

I think about all of these things as I get the mower ready. In fact, my writing is similar to my mowing. I meander, I reminisce, I ponder, I try to find deep meaning where none exists. What I do not do, is cut the grass.

My wife sticks her head out of the door.

‘Have you started yet?’

I smile at the naivety of the question. My long experience tells me that this is not a job which is to be rushed into. I examine the mower, ensuring that all of the parts are in working order.

Then I inspect the grass. I lay my hand flat on the blades, checking them for moisture. I pull out a few blades and throw them into the air, testing the direction of the wind. I drag my feet through the lawn, sampling the area for stones or other offending items.

I watch the sky doubtfully. I wonder if there is the possibility of rain. It is important not to start a job when there is the probability of not being able to complete it.

Next, I complete several laps of the garden, sizing up the task and working out a competent strategy. I look at my neighbour’s lawn and note the neat lines which his mower has produced. Mine never turns out quite like that. I have a more haphazard sense of direction when cutting the grass, moving around in unpredictable directions until the whole area is covered.

I know that the first cut of the year is always the hardest. The grass is long and snakes around my ankles. The small mower will struggle with the size of the job. The blades will become clogged, the grass will escape the box and the final result will end up looking somewhat like a ploughed field.

I take the extension lead out of the shed. It is wrapped around a plastic wheel and I unfurl it slowly, inspecting the long cord to ensure that there is no imperfection or flaw. I plug it into the socket in the conservatory and attach it to the mower.

Then I take a few paces back and step into the plastic wheel which is used to store the extension lead. I hear it crack under my weight and my ankle becomes wedged into the gap in the middle.

I stumble about with the wheel thus attached to the back of my foot, as if it is a giant ill-fitting shoe or some grotesque extension of my leg. I struggle to hold my balance as I desperately try to shake it off.

My wife sticks her head out the door once more.

‘Have you started yet?’

‘Don’t panic! I’m getting around to it!’