Smoking Grass

I've recently come back from a wonderful few days in the company of Sparkling Eyes. Rock Chick wasn't around as much as usual because she's earning a wage as a professional waitress and for her a taster of the working world and the reality of money is being had. She's having fun, but especially on pay day. Now don't that sound like a familiar story for most of us.

I went to B & Q with Sparkling Eyes and bought a box of lawn fertilizer and moss killer. It seemed quite a large box but the instructions said it was enough for a quarter of a tennis court. Sparkling Eye's lawn is about this size I thought. So with vigor I took hand fulls of this substance and cast it over the lawn like a farmer throwing out seed on a freshly ploughed field. With pride in my step I looked for each patch of grass where the weeds were particularly thick and scattered a little extra. Sounds like a Bank advertising commercial that bit. I'll admit at this point not knowing what to expect. My reading of the instructions was cursory. Because if I had read them closer and understood what the effects were going to be I'd of done just a small patch of grass rather than the whole lot.

Half a day later after a good soaking with the hose the lawn was not the same. It looked like it had been burnt in patches. Sparkling Eyes threw daggers at me. Not to mention a tongue lashing. Rock Chick piled on the guilt. Telling me it was Sparkling Eyes pride and joy going out into the garden. The little brat said what i had done was like killing Sparkling Eyes second child, the lawn. Yep. A little on the dramatic side i thought. But I had it. I was hung out, draw out and quartered in the smallest littlest chunks you could imagine. The Crows pecked out my eyes, but I clung onto life. And re-read the fertilizer box half a dozen times afterwards. No matter how many protestations I made, "in two to three weeks it will be fine" it was not good enough. Another poke to the eye. Rock chick giggled in delight at my castigation and nearly castration if I hadn't of been quick witted, off the mark and a fast fat-boy runner and hidden the knifes.

The days passed and I fetched my train home. Next time I hope to do things differently. Next time I'll get someone else to scatter the grass. And I'll be away, with an alibi. Some place where I can't be found and can't be blamed.

I'm sure the grass will look good shortly, but between now and the place it does look good I'd just better be afraid. Aware. And look over my shoulder.