One of the annoying things about living in Ozerland is the mania for mowing grass, lawn is too grand a notion. The act of mowing isn't the problem. Its the obsession with motor mowers and the chronic desire to cut the grass down to the roots. This activity must be done at some ungodly hour in the morning; probably due to a the misconception that the sun may rise to levels that sear the flesh down to the bone before 9am. The manic activity is not confined to those of retirement age who have noting better to do with their time. Better still if the mower is supercharged with designer, mega decibel exhaust and go-fast stripes.
I was woken this morning by some half-wit next door and, had I possessed the necessary equipment, would have been delighted to hasten her passage across the Styx and payed Charon handsomely.
It was a comfort to find out that a I was not the only crusty to object to such a rude incursion into my territory ...
