The edge of the lawn is where the grass stops and the border begins. As the mild and sunny British spring weather continues I've become well acquainted with the edges of lawns, new and old. Where time permits my husband mows, using our own petrol mower and I attempt the edging. This task begins with a search of the customer's shed for the right tool. Sheds are a fertile topic in their own right, but for the purposes of this post I will limit myself to the edging shears - if I can find them. Are they stuck in that cardboard tube to my left? No, those are our customer's late husband's golf clubs. Try again behind the forks and spades. Finally unearth edging shears. Success. Open and close handles, inspect rusting blades and replace shears where I found them.
Another lawn, another shed. I go straight to the allocated area and take out an almost new pair of hand shears, like shiny red gigantic scissors which rotate through 180 degrees. Kneeling, I manicure the edges of the lawn. A fiddly job but satisfying. In other gardens, lacking such kit, I have been known to resort to a large pair of old kitchen scissors. This is not ideal.
A new customer and another set of shears. Yes, there they are. (I did not notice if there were any golf clubs). What is more they are oiled and in good condition. In a happy frame of mind I head towards the back patio to edge along the lawn only find grass has flowed from the lawns to the borders on my right and left. These need digging out, weeding and redefining, but we are only being paid to mow the lawn. Dispirited, I do what I can, replace the shears and take up a half moon. Time is limited but at least I can try to restore some fragments of crazy paving.
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