Cuts

Cuts

I go outside for a quiet read. The sudden sound of lawnmowers firing up resonates from the neighbouring gardens. At least six of them by the sounds of it.

I imagine there’s a private Facebook group in the village. The Green Finger Gang. “Dear all. The cut commences at 1500 hrs precisely”.

And it does so in perfect synchronisation: cutting, mowing and trimming in time with one another – like a well-polished orchestra. I look over at my metre-long grass thinking, if only I’d learned to play the Flymo.