Far be it from me to personify, but I am getting a little fed-up of the gloating growing behaviour of my lawn.
The sun is out. Out of what I do not know, but it is.
It is warm. There are a few ephemera floating around. It’s like Woodstock before the Hippies realised that the Sixties were soon to be over. The foliage, as leaves and green stuff like to be known as, is getting thicker and richer in hue. The clouds are meandering by like aristocrats pondering the meaning of their fluffy existence. And the grass, the bloody grass, is growing at a rate of knots.
And the Missus has noticed it and given me warning, right across my mid-ship, that it will need cutting.