Best Laid Lawns

I can’t quite believe I’m typing the following but, it would seem that Accountant may have been right. This is a rare occurrence that happens as often as my being wrong but, it has finally happened in my life time.

He relented under my brutal badgering and approved a complete lawn transplant. However, my smugness was short lived. Every day has been spent working the land - digging, excavating, stamping, levelling and raking then re-raking in readiness for the Bank Holiday Weekend. When Chickie slept, I raked. When Chickie went out with Nanna and Grandad, I raked. When Chickie went to bed, Accountant dug and I raked. Twenty hours of toil, five callouses and hands that may never look womanly again and we were ready to go.

When a scowling Accountant dumped his 15th wheelbarrow full of turf at my wellied feet, I could tell he was beginning to hate me. And I was beginning to hate gardening despite my initial enthusiasm and the development of a curious crush on Alan Titchmarsh. As I surveyed the 27 squared metres of dubiously levelled mud and then down at the 4ft high pile of turf, I did wonder why I’d done it to myself.

Upon unrolling my new green carpet, my spirits wilted further. Rather than the lush, thick bowling green grass I’d come to expect (a la batch No 1), this sad looking offering was yellowing and smelt of something very, very familiar.

Manure.

As Accountant had barricaded himself in the house to avoid all involvement, I decided I’d plunder on and see what happened. One hour and four squared metres later and I decided a call to the garden centre was overripe as was my, now steaming, lawn.

Me: "It's yellow and smells funny"

Penny at the Garden Centre: “What does it smell like?”.
Me: “Horse droppings”.
Penny at the Garden Centre: “It shouldn’t smell like that, that means it’s fermenting and won’t root. You need to bring it back”
Me: “Marvellous”

Me: “Sweetheart, we need to take the lawn back”
Accountant: “@#;!in& b@#%!** hell”

Not only had I spent every waking moment preparing the lawn for this weekend meaning I had no time to do anything of an enjoyable nature and, most importantly, couldn’t even do my housework leaving me rocking in the corner muttering “dirty, dirty, dirty, must clean, clean, dusty, bad, dirty”, our dull bank holiday weekend arrangements have been scuppered and we now have a giant mud pit for a garden until June.

A toned upper body and sunkissed glow would have been some consolation for my wasted efforts but, no, bingo wings, acne and a disgruntled husband is all that’s on offer.