Mown, mown, mown…
Put the flag out: we have just mown our lawn!
Correction: Shana mowed the lawn; I merely minced about with a pair of edging shears.
At one point, Shana seemed to be getting dangerously close to me with the mower. My shoes started to get nervous.
“Oi, watch out!” I yelled. “I’m wearing me best pumps!”
Like all chores, though, it felt much better once we’d got the job finished and could come in for a cuppa and a good old moan.
“That lawn’s a real nuisance to mow,” grumbled Shana. “It’s not flat. It’s bumpy — a centimetre high in some places and three inches in others.”
That’s all we need, I thought. A lawn that’s a mixture of both metric and Imperial. I wonder: will we ever cope?