I finally got my lawn cut. (I know, I know - how terribly exciting. Well, I ain't keeping you; go check out the next blog.) The grass hadn't been cut since last year, it was wild-meadow high. ("Wild Meada Scent" from Laboritre Laitrom.) The lawnmower man found all sorts of stuff down the back - sliotars, prams, ships, the last Irish socialist, Shergar. He also found Bob's aborted attempt at crop growing (not made up) which is really just a hole in the ground.
- You lads digging a grave? he asked.
I have to say, he did a horrid neat job, tasty like.