90
LOSING THE PLOT
T
here’s something I’ve been
meaning to say for a while
now. So I guess I should just
come out and say it: my name is
Simon and I like lawns.
I know, I know... I’m a traitor
to the organic gardening
movement. I’ll be kicked
out of the Permaculture
Designers Union;
subjected to pyrolysis at
the stake by a mob of
biochar makers; buried
in a lasagne bed by
a fundamentalist,
lone wolf, no-dig
gardener. But I don’t
care. I am unrepentant.
Lawns are nice.
You can have picnics
on them. Play football on
them. Throw frisbees. Lie
down and watch clouds, or read
books, or sleep. Yes, digging up
your lawn and turning it into a
vegetable patch might provide a few cherry
tomatoes and a couple of bunches of parsley, but will
it allow you the pleasure of spending an entire Sunday
afternoon skipping merrily, whistling a happy tune,
wearing nothing but a daisy chain, a 1981 Ashes series
cricket hat and a smile? I don’t think so – not without
the risk of doing yourself an injury on a cucumber stake.
Dedicating a patch of land purely to pleasure is a bit
decadent, when you think about it. But decadence is
freedom, as Gandhi said. Or was it discipline is freedom?
Never can remember. Either way, lawns, in their soft,
lush, spongy way, represent a summer haze, family
and friends, fun and games. Which is why it’s all
the more upsetting that my lawn is a dust bowl.
By the time you read this, rain may have altered the
scene, but currently it is a sad one. Instead of green, all
is brown. Instead of grass between your toes, you feelspikes in your soles. And instead of the
sound of laughter, all you hear is a whine:
“Carry me, carry me. The bindiis hurt.”
(Unsurprisingly, Mrs Plot has just
about had enough; I’m not as
light as I used to be.)
I have tried an organic
remedy for bindiis, applying
iron sulphate. It turned
them satisfyingly black,
but they came
back with a
vengeance,
possibly
because I had
failed to do
the follow-up
procedures of
aerating and
fertilising the lawn (the
devil’s in the detail, isn’t it).
I have also sought local
advice, and was told that bindii
bashing around here involves
inviting your friends around, giving
them a trowel each, and sitting around
bonding over root extraction. (I ruled this out on
the grounds that I don’t have many friends as it is,
and the ones I do have, I would like to keep.)
Other options include painting the grass green, as
they do on certain golf courses (ruled out due to lack of
grass), replacing the lawn with fake turf (ruled out due
to uncertainty over pleasurable effect of strands of
plastic between toes), and applying a chemical herbicide
(ruled out due to fact that humans live in house).
It seems the only thing for it is to make the lawn
healthy. Mow higher, aerate, feed, fix the pH, allow
the grass to out-compete the bindii. In other words, do
some gardening. But on grass. Strange concept, and
it takes a bit of the whole decadence and relaxation
thing out of the scenario, but I’m willing to give it
a go. Now where’s that cricket hat...?Lawn TRAITOR
Simon Webster reveals a secret love of lawns and other strange shenanigans.
ILLUSTRATION BY TANYA COOPER/ILLUSTRATION ROOM