People splash out on all sorts these days.
Fridges that tell you off.
Cars that shriek if you so much as exhale strangely.
Garden tools that cost more than my first flats deposit.
Me?
Ive got a battered old mower, paint flaking, temperamental starter cord, and the stubborn spirit of a Shire horse.
She came into my world as these sorts of things often doby utter accident and sheer necessity.
My ex picked her up donkeys years ago for a handful of pounds at a car boot sale. Back when it was us, when we still bought into forever, when we paid the council tax on time. When the marriage unravelled, we split what we could.
He legged it with the grand stuffthe sort you show off on Facebook.
I held on to the bits that actually kept daily life ticking over.
A couple of saucepans.
A hoover that sounded like it was coughing up its own lungs.
And the mowerbecause the patchy grass out back didnt give a toss that my bank balance was running on empty.
I didnt keep her because Im sentimental.
I kept her because I couldnt fork out for a new one.
Then time did its odd little thing.
My exs life unravelled, bit by bit, like last autumns leaves blowing down the roadbad choices, louder justifications, stranger opinions. I heard the news from those mutual friends who spoke quietly, as if not to shatter something delicate.
He lost the big things.
The flash stuff.
The stuff that looked good in a profile picture.
Meanwhile, I stuck with the mower.
And the years piled on.
Eleven years shouldering it myself.
Eleven years figuring things out solo.
Eleven years fixing, sorting, making it all work without backup.
I never had proper storage, mind.
No garden shed.
No insulated garage.
Nothing resembling a decent home for garden kit.
So shes left to brave the elements, out in the open, year after year, at the mercy of the British weather.
An English winter doesnt go easy.
Its a kind of cold that cracks plastic, chills metal to the bone.
That makes the wind feel menacing and snow just sits, heavy, on everything.
Every year, I brace for disappointment.
Come spring, I approach her like a not-quite-familiar friend who may not remember my face.
I wipe off the moss and bird droppings.
I pick out the muck and old grass gathered in crevices.
I check the petrol, like a nurse checking a pulse.
Then, its time to jab that squishy primer bulba tiny rubber heart pumping life into the engine.
She makes a small wheeze.
A tiny promise.
Next is the ritual.
I dig in with my size 5 bootsnot exactly mechanics gear, but theyll have to do.
I grip the handle.
Yank the cord, once.
Nothing.
Again.
Still nothing.
A third try, and I mutter something melodramaticplease, not this year, not todaylike Im bartering with ancient English spirits.
If she doesnt spark to life, its not just inconvenient.
Its another bill.
Another problem.
Another reminder that life can suddenly get a whole lot tougher.
But thenas if shes affronted by my lack of faith
she bursts awake.
Not politely.
Not sweetly.
She rattles and roars:
Im still here. Come on, then.
Every single spring.
Through rain, sleet, frost, bone-aching cold, and relentless gales, she still wakes and does whats needed.
And each time she does, I feel this ridiculous, tender pride bubble up in my chest.
Not because shes a lawn mower.
Because shes proof.
Proof that old, beaten-up things can still turn up.
Proof that endurance isnt always neat and tidy.
Proof that survival doesnt need polishjust a bit of pig-headedness.
Nobody really celebrates the quiet wins, do they?
Everyone loves the fairy-tale glow-ups
the new car, new home, new life business.
But sometimes, the sweetest victory is tiny:
A machine that refuses to quit.
A woman who keeps things ticking regardless.
A lawn that looks decent because someonemenever stopped bothering.
Im 50 now.
My back grumbles more.
My patience is worn thin.
My bank account still on a knife-edge.
But when that mower coughs into life, I find myself grinning like a fool, both hands on the handle, hair in chaos, listening to her purr like shes cheering me on.
She doesnt know my story.
But shes played her role.
So yes.
I love my lawn mower.
Not because shes flash.
Because shes bloody loyal.
And in a world teetering on the edge, loyals a kind of everyday miracle. Most folks wouldnt look twice at her, scuffed and wheezing in the corner. But I knowsometimes, surviving a rough patch is victory enough. Sometimes, turning over on a cold morning is its own small anthem.
Maybe one day shell give up for good and the grass will have its wild way until I find something new, something shiny and eager. Maybe Ill mourn herjust a littlewhen that day comes. But for now, every rumble from her battered frame feels like an answer to the worlds doubt.
So I walk my wobbly lines, fresh grass swirling up in ragged clocks, the old mower leading the way, the two of us quietly triumphantnot glamorous, not grand, but gloriously, stubbornly still going.
And if thats all there is?
Honestly, its enough.
