Carol’s Column

So who needs green grass?

THE grass is always greener on the other side.

Everyone else's side.

In comparison, our lawn looked like the Namib desert during the dry season.

Brown and withered, the grass erupted sporadically in spurts and bounds.

A blade here — a blade there. It could not have been called a luxuriant growth by any stretch of the imagination.

Which was why I was thrilled when Johannes Tshabalala arrived early one morning.

I opened the door and was confronted by the sight of a stocky, little man in baggy corduroys and green gloves.

"I'm the answer to your dreams. Johannes Tshabalala at your service," he said.

"You are?"

He smiled and winked, causing his eyebrow to twitch in a most alarming way.

"I happened to be passing and I caught a glimpse of your lawn," he said sympathetically, shaking his head sadly. "It really is depressing," he added and pulled a red-check handkerchief from his pocked.

"But don't worry, leave it to Johannes, and before you know it, you will have the greenest grass in the neighbourhood."

This was an offer I couldn't refuse. I hired him on the spot.

"I'll have a spot of breakfast," he said, "nothing big, mind you, perhaps just few grilled sausages, eggs, tomatoes and toast. And then we'll discuss your grass."

Later, much later, after a cursory look through our garden shed, he compiled a short list of implements necessary for ensuring the healthy growth of our lawn.

"Don't you think a self-driven lawnmower with a striped umbrella-awning is a little extravagant?" I queried tentatively. "And a borehole and reticulation system? I mean we've alway just used a hosepipe before."

"Precisely," he said. "Precisely."

After a week, our grass looked distinctly greener.

On Monday, we were woken by a dreadful smell that permeated the entire house.

My spouse, on looking out of the window, remarked casually, that the garden had disappeared. He was right. Our house, like Noah's Ark, was perched on a sea of manure.

Johannes was ecstatic. "Now watch that grass grow," he enthused through his gas mask.

The entire neighbourhood observed the progress of our lawn with great interest. We decided to issue hourly bulletins.

On Wednesday, tragedy struck in the form of an army worm invasion. But there was worse to come. On Wednesday evening, under cover of darkness, a mole moved in.

On Thursday, his little tunnels criss-crossed the lawn in gay abandon.

On Friday two things happened simultaneously. The lawn died, asphyxiated by the manure, according to the ear, nose and throat specialist we called in.

And Johannes, while chasing the mole in the self-drive lawnmower, ran over my husband.

Johannes was given the brass handshake. He's lucky that's all he received.

Only this morning, we planted concrete throughout the garden.

They say the upkeep is minimal. And the plastic flowers need no watering.

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