My 33rd birthday came and went without much of a noise this week. The day consisted of going to work as usual, doing the usual stuff, chatting with the usual folk. It was only on the drive home where things got a little bit mid-life-crisis on me.
At the weekend I decided to dig up and re-sow a patch of grass in our lawn that had been scuffed bald by the feel of the little girl who used to live in our house as she played on her swing. Now, I’m not a gardener as such. As Fliss pointed out recently, my cutting the grass was the first time I’d done so for most of the last decade, so any other gardening beyond pushing our Flymo around is simply not me.
This bald bit on the grass had been bugging me for the three months we’ve been in the house, though, so with the weather hot and sunny and the grass freshly cut, I dug, I added fertilizer, and I sprinked some grass seed. All that is required from that point is to keep it well watered, said the instructions. But, since we didn’t have a watering can and the hose wont fit onto the weird taps in the house, each attempt at watering the patch involved filling a jug and splashing the water over the area. A bit hit and miss, I can tell you.
The hardware store is on the way home, and, being older and wiser on that particular day, I figured a watering can would be the solution to my irrigation woes. Much to my dismay the lame ass hardware store only had the most basic of watering can – one without a spout attachment that sprinkled, taking the point out of it entirely in my opinion.
Explaining this to cousin Iain brought great mirth for him… and great mirth to Fliss too. Just because a man has reached the age where he knows what he wants in a watering can, it doesn’t make him, you know, old.
Once home we kind of solved the problem by using a hot needle on a lemonade bottle to create a rough-shod sprinkling device that works rather well, considering it was a first attempt. See, the old mind is still sharp as a tack.