People these days have all sorts of posh gadgets. Fridges that remind you about the milk. Cars that beep and shriek if you so much as glance at your phone. And lawn equipment so expensive youd think you were buying a secondhand Mini rather than something to tame the garden.
Me? Ive got an ancient lawn mower, paint peeling, cord as stubborn as a mule, and a will as tough as Yorkshire stone.
She came into my life purely out of necessitythe sort of practical accident that seems to happen when you need it most. My ex picked her up years ago for a handful of quid at a jumble sale. Back then, we were still an us. Still paying our bills mostly on time, still clinging to the idea of forever. After the divorce, everything was parceled off. He drove away with the flashy stuff, the gadgets and kitchenware that look good in photos.
I kept what kept the household ticking over.
A few battered pans.
A hoover that sounded like it was on its last legs.
And the mowerbecause the grass doesnt stop growing just because my bank balance says it should.
I wasnt sentimental. I just couldnt afford a new one.
Then time did what it always does.
My exs life blew apart like a pile of old newspapers in the winddodgy decisions, madder excuses, strange new convictions. Id hear it all secondhand from mutual friends, always said in that voice people use when theyre telling you about a delicate situation.
He lost the big stuff.
The things that made a good impression.
The things that mattered on paper.
Meanwhile, the mower stayed with me. And the years ticked on.
Eleven years of me pulling her out every spring.
Eleven years of doing things without anyone else to hand me a spanner.
Eleven years of becoming the go-to for every fix, every bodge, every make do and mend.
Thing is, I dont have a garage.
No nice brick outhouse.
No sensible home for tools.
So the mower lives outside, year in, year out, at the mercy of whatever the British weather has in store.
And British winters arent exactly gentle.
The kind of damp chill that seeps into your bones and makes metal feel brittle. Rain that gets everywhere and frost that never seems to shift.
Every spring I expect the worst.
I go out to her like I’d approach an old mate who might have forgotten my face.
Give her a brush-down.
Pick out soggy old leaves from nooks they never belonged in.
Check the fuel, gentle and careful.
Then squeeze that little primer buttona tiny pump, the heart that gets everything started.
It always gives a soft pop.
Next comes the ritual.
Standing firmsize five boots, far from industrial but theyll do.
Grip the handle.
Give the cord a tug.
Nothing.
Again.
Still nothing.
Third time lucky, and I mutter something desperate, bargaining with whatever ancient forces might be listening:
Not today. Please, not today.
Because if she doesnt start, its more than just an inconvenience.
It means money I havent got.
Another item on the never-ending to-do list.
Another reminder that life can turn on a sixpence.
And thenright when Im about to give upshe bursts into life.
Not politely. Not sweetly.
With a proper rowdy growl:
Im here. Let’s get on with it.
Every spring, without fail.
Eleven springs running.
Despite rain, sleet, mud, heatwaves, every form of English weather you can imagineshe soldiers on.
Every single time, I feel this silly, fierce gratitude bubble up.
Not because its just a mower.
Because shes proof.
Proof you can be old, scruffy, flawedand still keep showing up.
Proof that perseverance is rarely pretty.
Proof that survival doesnt need to be shiny, only determined.
No one really mentions these little triumphs.
Everyone wants new car, new house, new beginnings stories.
But sometimes, the real win is smaller:
A machine that refuses to pack it in.
A woman who refuses to let her life grind to a halt.
A lawn that gets mown because, well, someonemekeeps turning up.
Im 50 now.
My backs stiffer. My patience is thinner. My budget needs careful juggling every month.
But when that mower coughs into life, I stand there grinning like a foolhands on the handle, hair wild, listening to her chug along like shes rooting for me.
She doesnt know my tale.
But shes in it.
So yesI love that mower.
Not because shes posh.
But because shes loyal.
And in a world where so much crumbles, sometimes loyalty feels like a tiny bit of magic. Next door, the neighbours show off their gadgetsrobot mowers buzzing in neat little lines, humming along while they sip lattes and film the progress for social media. I wave across the fence, muddy boots and broken nails, as my old friend and I power through brambles and buttercups alike. Were patched up, both of us, but we get the job done.
When she finally falls silent, engine clicking to a halt, I pause in that sudden hush. The lawn isnt perfectbald in places, wild in others. But its mine. Hard-won, like everything thats still good in my life.
I reach down, palm resting on her battered red hood. Not bad, old girl, I whisper, for both our sakes.
Maybe one day she wont start. Maybe one day Ill have to let her go, find a new way. But for now, weve both got just enough left for another seasonone more round in the long, ordinary fight.
And I realize: thats all I need. Not flash or fortune, just the stubborn, steadfast hum of somethingor someonestill working, still here. Still refusing, in their own dogged way, to say goodbye.
