People have all sorts of flashy things these days.
Fridges that talk back like theyre holding court in the kitchen.
Cars that beep furiously at the faintest hint of a stray glance, never mind a wrong turn.
Garden tools that could buy you a week in Devon if you tot up the receipt.
Me?
Ive got an ancient lawn mowerpaint flaking off, handlebar twitchy, pull cord with the disposition of a sulky teenager, and the stubborn mettle of a village donkey.
She arrived in my life like all the best survival tools do: out of pure necessity and a bit of luck.
My ex picked her up yonks ago for a handful of pound coins at a jumble sale. Back before we became I, back when forever was something we still believed in and we paid bills before the red letters came. When it all unravelled, and the split came, we divvied what we could.
He marched off with the grand thingsthe gadgets that fill a house with the smell of newness and the illusion of success.
I kept what kept life ticking.
A handful of battered pots.
A hoover that sounded like it was doing battle with its own wires.
And the mowerbecause the grass doesnt care if your bank account is running on fumes.
I didnt keep her for sentimental reasons.
I kept her because I couldnt dream of affording a new one.
But time worked its strange spell.
My exs life splintered, scattering like autumn leaves in a gustrash choices, wilder excuses, odd beliefs. I heard about it from mutual friendsalways in lowered voices, as though gossiping next to a sleeping bairn.
He lost the grand things.
The showy things.
The things that made him look sorted.
Meanwhile, I held onto the mower.
And the years rolled on.
Eleven years of powering that battered beast myself.
Eleven years learning how to get things done solo, no second pair of hands to pass the spanner.
Eleven years becoming the one who just finds a way.
But heres the rub: I dont have a shed.
No neat brick outhouse.
No glorious converted garage.
None of those sensible spaces for tools.
She sits on the path, braving every season, catching the brunt of the cold, with nothing but the open sky for shelter.
English weather isnt gentle.
Its a persistent grey damp that sneaks into every crack.
Winter makes metal seize and plastic shiver.
Rain turns the lawn to a bog and the wind feels like its reading you your last rites.
Each year, I brace myself for the worst.
Every spring, I head out, heart in my mouth, as if Im visiting an old mate who might have finally given up the ghost.
I whisk the muck from her casing.
Pry out dead leaves wedged in odd nooks and crannies.
Check the petrol like a nurse checking a pulse.
Then I thumb the little primer bulbher soft rubber heart.
It makes a tiny sound.
An unremarkable promise.
Then comes the ritual.
I plant my shoessize five, hardly builders boots, but I make do.
Grab that handle.
Give the cord a yank.
Nothing.
Again.
Still nothing.
A third pulland I mutter something grand to the grey sky, bargaining with any gods thatll hear me:
Not this year, mate, not today.
Because if she doesnt catch, its not just an inconvenience.
Its a new bill.
A fresh problem.
A reminder that life tilts when you least expect.
And then, suddenlyalmost insulted by my doubt
she splutters to life.
Not quietly.
Not gently.
She roars, a clatter and cough sending a flock of birds up from next doors sycamore:
Im still here. Get on with it.
Every spring.
Eleven springs.
Despite rain, snow, one surprise hailstorm, a record-breaking heatwave, and whatever else Blighty throws at her, she wakes up and trundles along.
And every time she does, this warm, ridiculous swell of gratitude jolts through me.
Not for what she is, but for what she proves.
She proves something battered and ageing can still show up.
She proves grit trumps newness.
She proves staying power beats sparkle.
You dont hear much about the quiet wins.
People toast the big transformations, the new house, new car, new start stories.
But the real victories? Theyre smaller than that.
A mower that refuses defeat.
A woman who wont let her life grind to a halt.
A stretch of grass that gets trimmed because someonemechooses not to give in.
Im fifty now.
My back aches more than it used to.
My fuse is shorter.
My purse demands careful management.
But when that mower kicks into life, I stand there, grinning like a fool, hair all over the place, both hands on the handle, listening to her noisy cheer.
She may not know my story.
But shes been part of it.
So, yesI love my old mower.
Not because shes posh.
Because shes relentless.
And in a world determined to rust or rot, relentless is nothing short of miraculous.
