Friday, 23 March 2012


I have a deal with my old petrol lawnmower: It starts when it wants to and that is that.  There is no logic to it, no reasoning with it (despite my attempts), it just starts when IT is ready.  A strange thing happens during the process also.  To an observer, with every pull of the starter-cord and every consequent non-start, the model name of the mower gradually changes.  It begins, in my case as a "Champion" model.  This soon deteriorates to "Old Girl", usually calmly whispered to the machine.  Then to something like "Bloody Thing", which is uttered through gritted teeth, through several other terms which question its fathers identity (were it to have one), until all i can emit are animal like growls, some high-pitched squeals and noises which cannot normally be constructed with the human tongue unless during an exorcism.  Only when these mowers "know" that they are on their last possible chance before they are ripped apart with Hulk-like strength do they finally cough into life.  Mine did exactly this to me today and not for the first time and i have made a poem explaining this relationship that many people may have with their mowers, or indeed many inanimate objects...

Mower, oh mower!
Why won't you start?
You know how you cause,
Great stress to my heart!

I pull and i pull,
And still you won't go,
You cause me to kick you,
Bringing pain to my toe!

I ask you nicely,
I ask "Just for me,"
But you refuse, cause anger
And fury for all to see.

"This is your last chance!" I cry,
My arm muscles torn,
Then, Yes! You now start,
And i can cut my long lawn.

The grass is now cut,
You are put in the shed.
Where you stay dormant,
Until next you play "dead!"

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