I needed a screen break, and it was sunny outside, so I thought why not try self-immolation? At least, that appears to be what some part of my #LongCovid addled brain was thinking. Whilst I wholeheartedly support the right to self determination for Tibet, Scotland, Catalonia and elsewhere, I really thought I was just going out to trim the grass.
When using a petrol trimmer (the kind you attach to a chest harness, with the engine and fuel tank behind your head), always be careful to wipe up any spills. With a hot exposed exhaust so close to the fuel tank, you really can't be too careful.
Or, you can be not at all careful. YOLO! All those monks in orange robes can't be wrong, can they?
I tidy up around the front of the house, and make sure the postie can get to the letterbox. She likes to wear shorts and gets quite cross if I let the nettles get too high.
The grape vine is looking good - the drunken wasps and hornets ate most of the grapes this year. A drunk hornet with its head fully buried inside a grape, and then drunkenly flying about bumping into things is quite a sight.
Bravely, I hack my way into the jungle until I find the raspberry canes. The brush is chest high here, but the debrousailleuse is making short work of it, flinging grass, thorns and nettles everywhere. My beard is so full of vegetation I'll be mistaken for the Green Man if I'm not careful. The smell of dirt, grass and petrol fills my nostrils.
I've always had a pretty good sense of smell, and I'm fortunate it's one of the things that #Covid hasn't taken from me. My nose has saved me from food poisoning by preventing me from eating food that made others sick. It's saved my life a few times by picking up the smell of burning and other dangers long before other noses noticed anything wrong.
There's a strong smell of fresh earth - Teredo (Mr Taupe) has been busy digging his tunnels. And the smell of grass. Hopefully my sinuses will forgive me later. And petrol.
The raspberrry canes are still there. Swinging the cutter head like a scythe, I clear a path. It's hard work, but the cutter at the front is balanced by the engine at the back. When I swing the cutter in front, the engine and fuel tank swing behind.
The dirt, the grass, the petrol. I think how lucky I am to have recovered my senses of smell and taste post-Covid. Others have not been so lucky. When I had Covid, everything tasted awful. Coriander (Cilantro) tasted like soap, and everything tasted "Covidy".
So good to smell the earth. And the petrol.
Not just the nasty smell of burnt two stroke petrol, but the sweeter smell of fresh petrol.
Odd. Why can I smell so much petrol? I glance behind me. The petrol cap is dangling loose. Apparently I somehow forgot to put it on after filling the tank, so every time I swing the cutter, I'm flinging petrol everywhere. It's all over my arm and shoulder, my overalls, on the engine...
I very calmly and carefully unclip the strimmer from the harness, and screw on the petrol cap. I want to turn it off, but the brain fog descends and I can't remember how. I look up and down the device for a clue. I check over the engine. No, that's the choke. That's the decompression button. That's the spark plug cover. I'm properly confused. Finally, I look at the handles, and see the kill switch and flick it.
I'm covered in petrol. I carry the strimmer to the concrete standing and put it down. I strip off my petrol covered things and head for the shower. That's quite enough gardening for today.
2023-09-24