Don't smoke the grass, trim it

The other day Dublin Shooter was expressing some concern at the notion of being judged a total lunatic for photographing peeling paint on a train station platform*.

I am not known for having any qualms these days when it comes to being summarily assessed as the "nutter with the camera".
I was thankfully born devoid of any sense of shame**

But this evening was slightly different.
You see, thanks to the Blipfoto picture-on-the-day thingy, I have been photographing this mini patch of impeccably manicured lawn on at least 12 different occasions.
Today, I reckoned that the light was just right, and since I had sweet fok all else in the bag anyway, today was going to be my sarcastic take on the houseproud couple with the impeccably manicured lawn. I was going to write something hopefully funny but in a slightly condescending manner about the time and effort spent in keeping this mini patch spick-and-span.

And just as I was taking the same photograph for perhaps the 12th time (I have tried portrait and mono early on and they don't work as well), the owners pulled up in their immaculately clean Qashqai.
I knew immediately that I would not quite pull off the nonchalant walk.
And all of a sudden I felt bad for trying to mock their mini patch of immaculately manicured lawn.
They had obviously clocked me on my honkers with my big show off camera taking a photograph of their M.P.o.I.M.L.
So I went up to the shiny waxed Quashqai with the polished tires and told the bemused couple in their 60s that I walk past their house every day on my way back from work and that I always admire the care with which the lawn at the front of the house is tended, and that tonight in the soft autumn light it looked particularly good and I saw the suspicion disappear in his eye, soon replaced by a twinkle of fatherly pride and a smile at the realisation that his careful work of love was being recognised by a slightly odd stranger.
She asked me where I was from and when I said that I was originally from France she asked me if we did not have grass like this (why else would I be photographing it?) and I explained that indeed not, soft green grass like this is unheard of in France, that the climate is too dry.
And I saw her face light up for a fraction of second, and for one short instant all these poxy days of rain and mist and drizzle and scattered showers made sense.
I congratulated them once more on their mini patch of impeccably manicured lawn (and by that time I truly meant every word I said), and I walked away nonchalantly in the sunset.

They still think that I am a nutter though. But a harmless one.



* I'm convinced that his nonchalant walk did wonders to dispel this terrible misconception...
** Those who knew me in the late 80s when I used to tied my mullet in a blue velvet bow can testify (I so wish that I were taking the piss right now...)