malt biscuits and mow-lawning

I just spread butter on a malt biscuit, and smooshed another one on top.  There was fruit in the bowl next to the bikkies, but I ignored it. God that's gross. 

Aaaaaaaaaaanyway.  I mowed the lawns this weekend.  I even strimmed the edges and tried (for the love of god, tried) to mow in straight lines.  This was momentous because thus far in my life my lawn mowing activity has consisted of:

- watching my mother or father mow the lawn
- wathing P mow the lawn
- letting my horse mow the lawn

You will note that none of the above involved me handling a lawnmower.  My mother (and by extension my father) didn't trust me with a mower (or in the kitchen, in the tool shed, with a saw etc etc - with good reason - I am the girl who just today managed to slice her little finger on the edge of a the clip from a manila folder, for crying out loud).  It wasn't only that I was useless and couldn't be trusted not to damage myself, but Mum really has a thing for a properly mown lawn, with the edges done right and all in straight lines.  I am not very good at straight lines. 

I usually watch P mow the lawns because, well, is there anything better than sitting on your deck in late afternoon sunlight watching your husband be all domesticated and vaguely sweaty? I think not.

And Bert, well, he was GOOD at keeping the grass down.  I just had to scoop the poop afterwards.

So, yes, I did it myself this weekend (I had P trapped inside slaving over a hot stove - on a par with watching him mow the lawn, I must say).  No one lost a toe, the grass is cut and I came away with a sense of satisfaction that I have not for one day in my life received from cleaning the loo, or washing the floors, or any other indoor chore for that matter.  Not that those things can't be satisfying, because they certainly can - usually in a I-vanquished-you-lurking-germs, begone-and-darken-my-bowl-no-more-or-for-at-least-48-hours kind of way.  But I really, really liked it.