Oh dear, I’ve got to the stage where I can’t cut my own lawn any more. I think it’s called old age. I have a poor record in regard to gardeners. I lost my last one just before the beginning of covid. Others I have lost, one went to New Zealand, one retired, one had a breakdown, and one became a long distance lorry driver. (No of this is anything to do with me, I assure you)

I now have Stephen and have high hopes of him being satisfactory. He does have to travel 30 miles but spends one day a week in my area. My grass is now so long that tiny animals can hide in it. I do like neat and short lawns, but am doing my bit for the environment by having one of the lawns as a short flower wild meadow. Well, I should be. It was planted six weeks ago and so far there is no evidence of wild flowers, or any other flowers for that matter. It must be the fault of our very cold autumn. I’ll let you know when I have a lawn to be proud of.