People these days have all sorts of fancy gadgets, dont they? Fridges thatll have a word with you if you leave the door open too long. Cars that set off enough beeps to wake the neighbours if you so much as sneeze. Garden tools that cost more than I forked out for my first flats deposit.
As for me? Ive got this ancient lawn mower. The paints peeling, the pull cords as grumpy as a wet Sunday, and its got the stubbornness of a mule on the Yorkshire Moors.
She came into my life the way most things do when youre scraping bya combination of luck and absolute necessity. My ex picked her up ages ago for a few quid at a jumble sale. That was back when life was us, back when we still believed in forever and didnt dodge the energy bill. When we split, we divvied the lot, as fairly as we could.
He made off with all the big thingsthe sort youd put in a glossy Insta story. I kept what kept the house tickin over. A couple of saucepans. A hoover that whined like a banshee. And, of course, the mowerbecause the grass wasnt waiting for my overdraft to magically disappear.
It wasnt sentiment that made me keep her. Couldnt afford a new one, plain and simple. And then, as it often does, time worked its odd sort of magic.
My exs life tumbled downhill like cheese rolling at Coopers Hillbad decisions, stranger ideas, loads of whispered updates from friends who used that careful, break-it-to-her-gently voice. He lost the things that once made his life look flash. I kept the mower.
And the years ticked by. Eleven years of being the one who sorted it all. Eleven years of figuring out things without a second pair of hands. Eleven years of being the person who fixes, who tackles the job, who just gets on with it.
Thing is, Ive never had a fancy shed. No safe little garage. Nowhere proper to store anything. She lives outside all year, right where British winters can give her a real pasting. And you know what our winters are likedamp, biting cold that makes your bones ache, rain that never ends, and wind thatll cut right through you.
Each spring, I half-expect to find her rusted solid, ready to give up the ghost. I tiptoe out, almost nervous, like she might have forgotten me over the winter. I brush off the grime, flick away leaves that have worked themselves into impossible spots, check the petrol like Im taking a pulse.
I give that little primer button a squeezethe tiny rubber heart that feeds the engine. It gives a faint click. The tiniest whisper of hope.
Then comes the show. I plant my feetsize 5s, hardly the stuff of mechanics, but theyll do. I clutch the handle. I yank the cord. Nothing. Have another go. Still nothing. Third time lucky, and I find myself muttering old-lady bargains to the universe:
Come on, not this year. Not now.
Because if she doesnt start, well, its not just a pain in the bum. Its another bill to pay. Another reminder that lifes always waiting to trip you up.
And then, every year, just when Ive given up hopeshe starts up with a wheezy, rattling roar thats about as subtle as a pub quiz night. Its her way of saying: Still here, love. Lets get to work.
Every single spring. Eleven times now. Through drizzle, frost, floods, blazing heatwaves, you name it. She just wont quit. And every single time she comes to life, Im hit with this daft sense of gratitude that makes me smile in spite of myself.
Not all because its a lawn mower. But because shes proofproof that things dont have to be sparkling new or perfect to still show up. Proof that stubborn can get you a long way. That making it through doesnt mean looking good doing it.
No one really claps for the quiet wins. Its always the fireworks, the new motor, the swish house. But sometimes, victory is smaller. Its a machine that just refuses to pack it in. A woman who keeps the wheels turning, even when shes on her own. A scraggly lawn tamed because someonemekept turning up.
Im 50 now. My back aches more often than not, my patience isnt what it was, and my bank balance is a circus act at the end of the month. But when that mower grumbles to life, I cant help but stand there grinning, hair everywhere, hands on the handle, listening to her thunder away like shes egging me on.
She doesnt know the ins and outs of my life. But shes been there for all of it.
So, yeah. Im bloody fond of my mower. Not because shes posh. Because she sticks by me.
And in a world where everything feels like its constantly falling apart, faithful feels a bit like a miracle. Theres plenty I havent managedholidays in the sun, kitchen makeovers, flashing the right postcode. But Ive kept the grass down, season after season, and maybe that counts for something. Maybe its enough.
This afternoon, the mowers loud as ever, and the smell of cut grass unrolls across my garden and into the street. Neighbours peer over their fences, nodding approval or well-meaning pityI never can tell. But I wave anyway, and the mower and I chug along, stripes appearing on the green like proud little banners for no one but me.
When I finally let go of the handle, I watch the engine gutter and fade to silence. The old girl sits quiet, flecked with clippings and a slant of sunlight, just like she always has. I give her a pat, grateful as ever, and tell her, You and me both, lovestill running, still here.
As I stand back and take in the ragged, imperfect lawn, the patchwork of effort and perseverance, I feel itsmall and ordinary and golden: the sense that holding on counts for more than reaching some shining finish line. Some things break; some things last. But if you can keep going, keep starting again after every hard winterwell, maybe thats the very heart of living.
And if my ancient mowers got any say in it, well both be turning up for a good few springs yet.
