We knew the grass out the front of the house was getting long.
We knew it was getting too long when our neighbours enquired whether I was unwell – because why else would the grass have been left for so long?
It’s not even our lawn, it’s a small piece of grass next to our house. We’ve co-opted a little of it to grow raspberries and gooseberries, but the council still come and mow it.
Well, usually. They hadn’t been for about two months and, as I say, the neighbours were beginning to complain. Very very politely, but still complain.
So, the Lovely Melanie rang the council and they promised to do something about it (I would have done it but the lawn mower’s low on petrol, and not having a car makes it surprisingly difficult to get to a petrol station where we live).
The very next morning two chaps from the council arrived and cut the grass in the most bad-tempered and half-arsed way possible.
It now looks remarkably like an early ’80s hairstyle, all angry spikes and unexpectedly uneven surfaces.