Carol’s Column

Who says the grass is always greener on the other side ...?

THE grass is always greener on the other side.

Everyone else's side.

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

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

A blade here — a blade there. It cannot be called a luxurious growth by any stretch of the imagination.

And of course, the drought, Parktown prawns and Loda Mpbela haven't helped the situation.

Thrilled

Loda Mpbela, I should explain, has been our advisory minister of agriculture for the past 16 years. At present, Mr Mpbela is on leave for three months.

Which was why I was thrilled when Thompson Mangela arrived early one morning.

I opened the door and was confronted by the sight of a plump little man in rag-tag jeans, a crimson T-shirt and green gloves.

“I'm the answer to your dreams. Thompson Mangela 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 tragic,” he added and pulled a blue-checked handkerchief from his pocket.

“But don't worry, leave it to Thompson, and before you know it, you will have the greenest grass in the neighbourhood. I am a garden consultant of great excellence.”

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 always just used a hosepipe or buckets before.”

“Precisely, he said. “Precisely.”

After one week, our grass looked distinctively greener.

Smell

But 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.

Thompson 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 Tuesday, tragedy struck in the form of yet another Parktown prawn 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 Thursday afternoon, we captured him and placed him in the garden of the neighbours to whom we have not spoken for the past 15 years.

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 Thompson, while racing round the garden in the self-drive lawnmower, ran over my husband.

Thompson 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 plastic flowers need no watering.

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