Mow in peace

I have a patch of lawn that needs to be trimmed every once in a while, and even though it's colourfully known as c@#t grass, for once I’m not dropping any silly euphemisms.

This grass of mine that needs to be cut is done so by a gardener, as he possesses the tools of the trade and I possess hayfever; the gift that keeps on sneezing. So late on Sunday when he came over to my place to do his quick green lap, he mentioned in his low-key way that his mother had died only forty minutes earlier.

He seemed very calm about the whole thing; obviously having forewarning about her fate helped somewhat, as she was apparently struck down by an illness, that once it started, there was no cure. He told me that only a month ago his fourteen-year-old daughter and mother had gone camping on a solid three day trek, and they both came back scratched but in great shape.

As he drove away in his van and trailer, taking all my clippings with him, his words reminded me about the finality of death. There were no take two’s, just a single shot and that’s it. So for what it's worth, I devote this blog entry to all the gardeners of the world and their mothers,

Ms practising-one-take-wonder M.

The beginning of the end

Ok so where to start.
The number of years that I've been exposed to this world is kind of obvious from the title of the blog, and the fact that I feel like it’s ticking means that unlike some people who are in love prancing about hand in hand in slow motion, I am walking through life empty-handed and in thirty times fast forward. Of course it wasn’t meant to be like this. There was a plan, a most definite plan that stated and I quote; “I am going to get married”, which for an eight year old to write on her wall in crayon was all well and good, but what I didn’t realise then was before I could sweep down the aisle, I needed a male of the species to drag along for the ride. Looks weren’t a major issue on my behalf; I’m attractive in a forgettable way, and although my definition might only be standard in a time when everyone’s converting to high def, I still possessed all of the qualities that should be ripe for a decent and lasting union. I have money – not heaps, but enough to stay clear of the instant noodle diet – the hair is all there and behaving reasonably well (and the grey streaks are always replaced by browner ones before they become too obvious) – and I work full time in a job that other people want and I loathe. Perhaps the lack of a significant body of warmth on the left hand side of the bed has something to do with my inability to cook – I even burn cereal – meaning that although I can afford to do otherwise, I did actually have an unhealthy supply of instant noodles living on the top shelf in the kitchen. But they are only there if absolutely necessary and the gourmet pizza delivery boys were on strike (and at this stage I didn’t even care that they’re all Anglo), or for those times when I couldn’t be bothered getting off my rump to Bhoj or Soul Mamas.
If further proof is required of my standardness but still the catch of the day abilities just look at the photo above and ask yourself “can that be the skin of a forty-two year old?” Of course the answer is no, and technically you would be right as it’s a shot of Angelina Jolie’s cheek, but I’m getting myself a webcam next week so that I can prove to the world, and perhaps even myself, that I still have a chance to score.

The mildly fabulous Ms M.