The Scythe of Sisyphus

I have, in an act of noble surrender, purchased what can only be described as the Orange Reaper of Domestic Compromise. It’s a beast. A petrol-powered reciprocating blade of vengeance, disguised as a scythe mower. Why? Because once again, I have capitulated to the tyranny of wildflower whimsy.

Let me be clear: I loathe unmown areas. I want a lawn – an expanse of verdant regimentation, as God and the groundskeepers of Wimbledon intended. Stripes, symmetry, smug satisfaction. Instead, I get nettles, thistles, and smug sibling solidarity between Hay and her sister. It's always Hay’s sister and me in the long grass, scything away like we're extras in a Soviet-era collective farming drama, while Hay, Queen of the Meadow, wafts through with a jug of something infused and condescending.

Every year I say I won’t do it. I tell myself I’ll stand firm. I’ll be that bloke who draws a line in the clover. But then I see the two of them staring at the waist-high grass like it’s the Somme, and I reach for my boots like the doomed fool I am.

Well – not this year. This year, I’ve armed myself. I collected it yesterday from Merthyr Vale on the way back from a long weekend in Pembrokeshire. Price? £410. I actually bought it by mistake - I considered a snipe and then had 2nd thoughts, but didn't cancel my snipe properly and ended up with the highest bid, which was not a lot.

The machine is a marvel: part angry duck, part Cold War farm implement, it chomps through the long grass with the sort of mechanical snarl that suggests it once harvested rice paddies for the Viet Cong. It’s made by a company whose entire design philosophy seems to be “What if a blender and a lawnmower had a baby and gave it steroids?” And I love it. Because it will halve the work, allowing me to double the time spent tutting and pointing out how this entire ecological haymaking fantasy is completely unsustainable.

Hay, meanwhile, has suggested we “let more of the garden go wild” next year. I may require a second mower. Or therapy.

But let it be known – I am no longer the grass martyr. I am the Machine Operator. The Lord of the Lawn. And next year, when the wildflower lunacy begins again, I’ll be ready. Clad in steel-toe boots, ear defenders, and a glare that says: “One false move, and your echinacea is toast.”