That’s right, I said cutting the grass. It barely even counts as DIY, but I was doing it myself, which is surely the first rule of DIY, and I somehow managed to turn it into a disaster.
Our garden is on a bit of a slope, and after a few weeks of neglect, the grass on the steeper sections was completely out of control. I can’t get the lawnmower down there, so I had to buy a strimmer – or a decespugliatore if you like your Italian words.
I bought a petrol one, not one of those girly, electric things. This is a real man’s machine. You have to wear a helmet with an eye shield, ear protectors and gloves. It took me well over an hour to put the thing together and about the same to work out how to start it, but once I finally got it going, I was able to make quite impressive progress, strimming away without a care in the world.
Until, that is, I slipped over. It was only a small slip, nothing spectacular or painful. I looked around to make sure nobody had seen me embarrass myself, climbed back to my feet, put the strap back over my shoulder, pointed the strimmer towards a long piece of grass and stretched my index finger towards the throttle trigger. Nothing. I tried again. Still nothing. I looked down. There was a small slither of orange plastic where once had sat the throttle. The little bugger had snapped clean off and was now hiding somewhere in the long grass, taunting me.
And that was that. My strimming career had come to a sad, sorry end in less than 30 minutes.
We took the decespugliatore (I can’t get enough of the word, even if I currently hate the tool…) back to the shop, rather sheepishly, to
tell them that I’m an idiot and had fallen over and snapped off the throttle complain about its shoddy build quality and to get it repaired. Several weeks later, it still isn’t ready and the grass has grown almost as tall as the house.
On the plus side, I just spoke to my father; he was varnishing a fence yesterday and kicked over a full tin of varnish. So it’s not my fault I’m this hopeless, I have bad genes!