A Thorny Issue

Much like one of those punchbags for kids.

There was a slight sway and then my chosen target righted itself with one leaf looking a bit worse for wear. No problem; I have the genes for this and made some corrections to my backswing. A flex of the knees, hips pointing at the target, head down and fast acceleration through the turn. David Leadbetter might have had some disapproving words as I picked myself up and surveyed the sum total of my efforts. Three leaves.

With my bitch firmly hunkered down in the furthest corner of her kennel, I went in search of the correct footwear. Once I had donned my Callaway Comfort slip-ons I really gave it some welly. A dozen swings and nearly as many leaves later I took a breather. These stingy and spiky opponents weren’t giving up without a struggle. Time to fight dirty.

Grabbing a handful of stalks near to the base seemed like a good idea at the time. Mother Nature had thought of that one though. After tweezering out the thorns and a liberal application of Dettol I retrieved a pair of gloves and tried again. Several hacks later I had reduced a couple of stalks to stumps and needed to pause for some reflection; and to get my breath back.

When carrying out tricky tasks I find contemplation time to be invaluable. With a deck chair, cans of stale beer and some reading material to hand I felt sure that inspiration would soon strike. Sure enough, an hour and three beers later I realised my problems: Apart from being locationally challenged when it comes to clitorides, I had a blunt sickle. Obviously both of these issues needed dealing with. As my assortment of power tools were designed for building and destroying things I felt sure that Mrs Brian would be in full agreement if I used them to deal with the second problem first. I don’t think the ‘marital aids’ mentioned by the Cosmo feature writers included my orbital sander. Even on its slowest speed.

The following ten minutes or so have prompted me to issue some important safety advice. If you try to sharpen the blade of a sickle with an angle grinder, don’t hold the sickle between your knees. At least, not without the proper protection. A cricket box should do the job.

After another, slightly more painful, Dettol application I realised I’d had the solution in my hands all along. Mrs Brian was going to be very impressed when she got home. You see, even the most sturdy of growths can’t resist the determined efforts of an angle grinder. Mother Nature hadn’t planned for that one had she?

A third of the way through I decide to step back and admire my handiwork with the assistance of the final beer. My smirk of satisfaction disappeared as my bitch ventured out during the hiatus and had a scratch’n’sniff around the base of one of the remaining stumps. Clearly Mother Nature wasn’t going to go down that easy; and neither was I. There was a battle of wills to be fought and, if she was going to submit to me, I’d need more help than Cosmo and alcohol could offer.

What I need is an expert.

(…you can open your eyes now ladies…)