In spite of the dismal winter, it hasn’t been seriously below zero, and since the days began to lengthen the grass has been surreptitiously growing tall enough to be a pig to cut, and soon would be almost impossible.
Luckily it’s not rained much for a week, and the surface puddles have drained. Yesterday I topped the grass at the front with the blade set high; this morning began on the back, under a louring sky and bitter breeze. Hmm, I thought, this smells like … and yes: there was the swirl of small sleety flakes beginning. I went on shoving the Flymo grimly over the appointed yardage of tussocks, tried to rake up the wet gobs of mangled grass falling off the bottom of the mower, and chalked up another first: cutting the grass while it snows.