People have all sorts of posh gadgets.
Fridges that nag you if your milk is running low.
Cars that throw a fit if you blink at the wrong time.
Lawn tools that cost more than the deposit on my first bedsit.
And me? Well, I own a relic of a lawn mower, all peeling paint, stubborn starter cord, and the relentless spirit of an old sheepdog.
She arrived in my life as survival tools usually dounexpectedly and out of sheer need.
My ex snagged her years back for a handful of quid at a car boot sale. That was when we were still usstill pretending to believe in happy endings and actually paying our Council Tax on time. When we split, the great divide began.
He carted off the dramatic stuff, the showy bits youd pop on Instagram.
I kept the things that keep daily life plodding along.
A few battered saucepans.
A vacuum cleaner that sounded suspiciously like it was coughing up a furball.
And the mowersimply because the grass didnt care that my bank balance was looking pitiful.
It wasnt sentimentality.
It was basic economics.
Then time, as it does, worked its strange, slow magic.
My exs life unravelled like a cheap jumper in the washdaft decisions, louder justifications, increasingly odd opinions. News trickled down from mutual friends, always with that delicate dont shoot the messenger tone.
He lost the glamorous loot.
Gone was the shiny stuff, the status symbols.
While I clung onto the mower.
And the years piled up.
Eleven years as chief lawn tamer.
Eleven years of DIY or die.
Eleven years getting nifty with one pair of hands.
Now, lets be clear: theres no luxury storage here.
No dinky shed.
No swanky garage with buzzy lights.
No appropriate home for a bit of kit.
The mower sits outside year-round, right where the British winter can gnaw at her.
And lets be honest, a soggy English winter doesnt play about.
Its the sort of damp cold that makes plastic brittle and metal sulk. The sort that turns the wind personal and rain heavy as bricks.
Every spring, I fear the worst.
Every March, I shuffle outside like someone about to greet an old mate who may have forgotten them.
I brush off the layer of garden debris.
I fish out the cobwebs from crevices no web should exist.
I check the petrol like a dedicated paramedic.
Then comes the ritual: pressing that squidgy little primer bulb, the rubber heart that promises hope.
It squeaksa small promise, nothing more.
Then, action stations:
My size 5 trainers firmly planted (not exactly builder chic, but needs must).
I grab the handle.
I yank the cord.
Silence.
Second pullstill nothing.
Third times the charm, so I mutter something Shakespearean to the clouds:
Please, just let it be today.
Because if she wont start, thats more than a hassle
Thats a whole new bill.
A new headache.
A fresh bit of proof that life can sideswipe you whenever it fancies.
But thenclearly insulted that Id dared to doubt her
she sputters to life.
Noisy. Unapologetic.
She rattles out a roar as if to say:
Im not done yet. Lets get on with it.
Every single spring.
For eleven yearsafter rain, sleet, sun, hail, and whatever else the British sky chucks at hershe soldiers on.
And every time, Im overwhelmed (ridiculously so!) with a strange, gentle gratitude.
Not because shes a mower.
Because shes proof.
Proof an old, battered thing can keep showing up.
Proof sheer endurance isnt exactly glamorous.
Proof survival needs grit, not gloss.
No one throws a party for the quiet wins.
Everyones mad for a full-blown transformation
New car, new flat, new you.
But sometimes victory is subtler:
A machine that refuses to kick the bucket.
A woman who keeps the wheels turning.
A lawn cut because someone (me) kept choosing to do it.
Im fifty now.
My back has joined the local complainers club.
Im even less patient than a London commuter.
My expenses still require Olympic-level juggling.
But when that mower fires up, I find myself grinning, hair askew, hands on the handle, listening to her roar like an old friend egging me on.
She doesnt know my story.
But shes inseparable from it.
So yes, I love my lawn mower.
Not because shes fancy.
Because she sticks with me.
And in a world where things fall apart if you look at them the wrong way, faithful is pretty much a miracle.
And maybe, just maybe, thats the kind of happy ending worth having:
A stubborn old engine.
A patchy, imperfect patch of green.
And the quiet, everyday certainty thatcome what maywell both keep going.
Not perfect. Not posh.
But real, and running.
People Have Fancy Things: Talking Fridges, Overprotective Cars, and Pricey Garden Tools – But I’ve Got an Old, Grumpy Lawn Mower With a Mountain Goat’s Spirit, Eleven Years of Survival, and a Whole Lot of Faithful Miracles in My Back Garden
