I’ve got a compete, final-final version of The Meifod Claw! Wanna have a look? Let’s have a moment’s thought for lawnmowers first…
I’ve got a Lawnflite. No, that really it how it’s spelt, or how they do it anyway. Maybe its that loose approach to spelling that commercial and small plant manufacturers operate under, or maybe its been done in Americaans, in which case I’m going to jump off this thread before I go causing offence, and make something clear; fine people of America; feel free to go hell for leather with the English language while its not under my Watch. Go get em!
Goodness, I was thinking that I wouldn’t get into the Lawnflite thing until later into the blog, and now I feel that the grass has grown around my feet and it’s still too damp underfoot to mow my way out of the problem. Try the strimmer, you say? We could do that, maybe break out the blade attachment. Maybe not, the blade is fine for waving around the centre of the problem, but it becomes the problem when you get perilously close to the shrub border, or when you end up in a populated area of your town because you’ve got ear muffs on, and haven’t looked up through your face mesh in forty five minutes. For safety’s sake you ought to break out the blower and dry the grass that way, but you will look preposterous, and any man’s dignity is worth more than lawn maintenance. Which is why if push comes-a-shoving, and there ain’t no stiff breeze to help you out, I will break out the secateurs and sip down each and every piece of moist grass by hand, if only to keep my dignity. I recommend that you do the same.
So what were we trying to get to? I feel like we’ve all dealt with the lawn and everyone is positive but tired out, all getting along in the early evening twilight. Yes, it did take a long time to cut the lawn with secateurs, even with us all chipping in and snipping. To be honest I thought it was ridiculous to even try, but then you were all behind the idea and I thought I better get stuck in as well. Luckily my snips have an anti-fatigue feature designed into the mechanism, but your poor wrist looks positively famished of rest. I’m sorry about that. Next time I’d recommend that you just lift the cutting deck a little and do two cuts if you have to. As recompense I am prepared to put the coffee on. Yeah I thought that’d make you feel better.
Away from the issues and efforts of lawn maintenance, and closer to reality, I’ve booked in with my editor-and-legal parameter representative to have my second novel, The Brine in Me, editorialised in December. Now I’m not one to advise, but I will say that if you have anything that you think you need to run by a proper, grown up editor, go to Katherine. She’s Kosher.
In other news I’m fast running out of space to quietly mention that one of my three older brothers has some bangin good news! I’m not going to go any further, just enough to say that his name is Jacob. I’ll get back to you with his bank details later on. He works in computing networkering so it’ll be fine…
Fuck it, while he’s on my mind, I’ll add that Jacob and I used to share a bedroom, and he used to do weird computer programming stuff on his computer, in our room where he slept above me on the bunking arrangement, at times of the night anywhere between one and five-to-six a.m. True story. His partner is dead lucky to have found him and I tell her so.
In further news, I have recently got back from preliminary discussions with Arthur Wapkaplitt about hiring a showground for the weekend. We might have even booked the venue; it was a late night kind of board meeting so neither of us can remember. Anyway if we did, we’ll see you for the Shropshire Border Flower Show this November.
In other Arthur related news, I’ll be recording the new Cave Mind Podcast this Friday. And we won’t be alone! In something of a coup, I have managed to procure future food and drink critic supreme, Thomas Short, for an evening of New World real ale tasting and unbearably light conversation that might break down into disagreement regards the ultimate location for a fantasy hop garden. Socks and sandals are not optional.
The last word on a pistol poem, the faded note on a torn back page…
JW Bowe xx
P.S! Anna urges me to point out that she has checked the bank account, and I haven’t paid up front for my half of the showground booking. Shame. The November after next, then.
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