The long grass

When I bought this house in 2000, I was working up in Edinburgh and, therefore, weekly commuting. It was July when I moved in and the house had been empty for a while. At the time the garden wasn't terraced and the lawn sloped down to a flat area at the bottom. The whole garden wasn't much cared for and the grass was unkempt.

As the summer went on, though, the grass became longer and longer, to such an extent that I eventually noticed and made a mental note to buy a mower. You know, at some undefined point in the future. Then one weekend I came home to find the garden looking tidy: the lawn had been cut!

I would have been thirty-four years old then but I think for a moment there was a fleeting hope that I'd bought a house that came complete with horticultural fairies.

The real reason was a little more prosaic; one of my new neighbours, Jez - presumably horrified by the extent to which I was letting down the rest of the street - had come 'round and cut it. The irrepressible optimist in me hoped that he was a gardening fanatic who was only too pleased to have a second patch to work on but, in reality, I think it was a neighbourly act to help get me started.

Today I noticed that in my absence from the house, the grass has lost none of its enthusiasm for growing. I must confess I didn't go down and check but, from up here, I can't see the mower in the summer house. I guess I'd better get along to B&Q at the weekend. 

Or, actually, see if I can hire a gardener.