Andy Richardson: Women are damned clever at getting what they want

Now I know it’s probably the wrong time of year. And I’m sure that if Monty Don came to inspect the things that I’ve been up to he’d have more reasons to diss my work than a Remainer has to pinpoint the folly of Brexit, or is that a Brexiteer has to pinpoint the folly of Remain? Who cares. We’re done with that. We’ve moved on.

But I digress. Before we jump too far ahead, we ought to look at how we arrived at this new found state of horticultural excellence. I have a thing for growing stuff, but don’t care too much about what happens to it when its grown. Wife One kindly indulged this passion, allowing me to dig up squares of turf and plant carrots, parsnips and other crops that I happily left to rot. The pleasure was in the growing, not the digging. I’m not sure what Wife Two made of it all; she was never really there, in more ways than one.

Future Wife Three took umbridge at the trail of destruction. The lawn, she said, looked more like a chessboard. Something. Had. To. Be. Done. No more carrots. No more parsnips. No more checkerboards.

I suggested a wildflower meadow, that we simply dig it all up, scatter some seeds and watch the flowers grow. There’d be bees, red poppies, the fragrant scent of pollen and the gentle flutter of birds. We could sit at the edges, like Monet at Giverny, and marvel at the wonder. She scoffed before delivering her adjudication. It was succinct.

“No.”

So I came up with another plan. I would create a bowling green-flat lawn, seed it with the finest grass seed available, create her perfect lawn…..

She smiled.

….And then I would buy a bowling machine, erect metal poles, cover them in netting and spend evenings batting in the garden, like Ben Stokes at Headingley.

The smile left her eyes. But only for a moment. As a thought formed, she purred: “Go on then, you’re on.”

And so the garden has been levelled, I have painstakingly laid two tonnes of topsoil, I have bought the most ridiculous and expensive grass seed known to man and by 2020, the back garden will resemble Lord’s. Splendid. Soon I will invest in stumps, bat, gloves and pads.

The rotavator was fun. A friend told me you should never buy one because you only ever use one once – but, let me tell you, it’s worth every penny. Wolverhampton’s Celebirty Grass Cutter – four words I didn’t ever expect to string together – became a YouTube hit when he vowed to turn his local playing park into Wembley. Ironically, Jimmy The Mower’s efforts became so popular that he was asked then to cut the grass at, erm, Wembley. I plan to do for rotavating what Jimmy did for mowing. I intend to take a video of myself mashing perfectly good lawns to a pile of muddy dust, broken roots and severed worms. And then I intend to rotavate the great gardens of Britain. Powered only by Lucazade and a small generator, I’ll take my rotavator to National Trust houses, English Heritage castles and award-winning lawns – then blitz them. Or perhaps not.

After a long day rolling, the sweat was trickling from my brow. Spirit levels powered by lasers had ironed out every divot and cease, a roller the weight of a small house had created a billiard-flat surface, the seeds were busily germinating and my masterpiece was pretty much done. All I needed now was for nature to take its course, for the sun to shine and the clouds to rain. Simples.

I consulted She Who Must Be Obeyed to find out why on earth she’ll soon let me turn a lawn that she would have loved into a Big Boy’s Play Park. She smiled. “You really don’t get it, do you?” She was right. I didn’t.

“For six months, your Big Boy’s Play Park will be the best thing ever. And then you’ll gradually start to lose interest, the bowling machine will rust, the bat will be left in the corner, you’ll get back to watching cricket – rather than playing – and the grass will grow.”

She had a point.

“And then, after another six months, I’ll suggest it might be a good idea if we take down the poles, sell the bowling machine and mow the lawn.”

Damn. By that point, I wouldn’t have a leg to stand on. And She Who Must Be Obeyed, aka The Most Patient Woman In The World, will have the lawn she’s always dreamed of. Women are so damned clever.