Jonny McCambridge: Dealing with lawnmower envy and a trapped foot on a sunny Saturday

I get to it. The shed is tidied, the barbecue wheeled out and scrubbed, the patio washed, and the flowers watered. I’m beginning to consider that I might make it inside in time for an afternoon nap when my wife comments on the length of the grass. And not in a flattering way.

Years ago, I used to pay a man to cut the grass. When I lost my job it didn’t really make financial sense to keep this arrangement going, but I liked the chap who did the job and didn’t have the heart to tell him that I could no longer afford him. So, he kept cutting my grass.

Then later, when he discovered I was unemployed, he kindly offered me a job working for him. This raised the bizarre potential situation where I would be paying him to pay me to cut my own grass. I refused the offer and let him go. Now I cut my own grass.

I wheel the old mower out. It’s an electric model which means a confusing entanglement of leads and plugs. As I begin to straighten the leads, I can hear the dull roar of several other mowers. It seems that about half of the householders in my little estate are also mowing today.

The back garden is quickly navigated. Then I take the mower outside of the yard to start on the long thin strip of grass at the side of the house. Exactly whose responsibility this strip of grass is has always been a bit of a grey area. It’s outside my fence but I’ve long been aware that if I don’t cut it then nobody else will. A while ago a streetlight on this stretch fell over. Within a day an official van had arrived to remove the pole. But nobody ever comes to cut the grass.

As I take my mower out onto the road, I notice that several of my neighbours are similarly active. In the next house up from me the husband is also cutting the grass while his wife is weeding the flower beds. The man who lives across the road is also mowing his lawn.

I have to take the extension lead over my wooden fence to reach the mower outside the yard. As I walk past the woman next door looks up and smiles expectantly.

“Great day,” I say.

Then I put the plug into the extension lead and begin to walk back to the mower. As I walk past the woman next door looks up and smiles expectantly again.

“Powerful heat”, I say.

Then I begin to mow. Up and down. Each time I pass the woman next door she looks up and smiles expectantly. I smile back. Fortunately, the noise of the mower spares her any more of my sparkling banter.

As I cut the grass, I become more and more conscious of the other two neighbours. It is hard not to notice that their mowers are substantially larger and more powerful than mine. While my little electric machine coughs and splutters its way through the long grass, my two neighbours are effortlessly cutting neat, straight lines into their lawns.

In my mind I become convinced that my two neighbours are unfavourably judging my grass cutting efforts. I’m flustered now and this means that my mowing becomes even messier than before. I keep missing bits and then having to go back over to fix it, creating an untidy patchwork.

Then I have to go and empty the grass cuttings into the compost bin. As I come back I see that my two neighbours are now finished and have come together for a conversation. The way normal people do.

I pass them as I walk back to my mower. They look up and smile expectantly.

“That’s some day,” I say.

And I return to the grass. But it’s even worse now because the two of them are standing just yards away, chatting. It’s obvious to me that they are discussing my mowing prowess. One makes a remark, the other laughs and I burn with shame.

But I struggle on until I’m finished. It’s messy but at least it’s done.

The two neighbours are still talking as I begin to tidy up. As I start to wrap the extension lead, I finally begin to relax. Now I’m wondering why I allowed to myself to become so flustered. Now I’m thinking that I might even join my two neighbours for a chat. I’ll gather up my things and go over and say hello. The way normal people do.

Then I step back. On the grass is the round, plastic reel which my extension lead winds into. My foot goes into a gap in the receptacle which is just large enough for my heel to become wedged. It’s like a giant plastic shoe or a cast on the bottom of my foot.

I jump forward but my foot is stuck fast. At this point I should really sit down and remove my shoe, but I’m still self-conscious about the two watching neighbours. So instead I try to walk normally, as if giving the impression that having my foot stuck in a reel is all part of my plan for the day.

But this movement succeeds merely in pulling the extension lead, which is still plugged into my mower, taut. It wraps quickly around my legs and I stumble onto my knees on the newly cut grass.

I remove my shoe and rise quickly. I pass the two neighbours and the woman weeding the flower beds. They all smile expectantly at me.

“Aye, that’s some day,” I say.

Then I go back inside for a nap.