It’s been a while since I’ve been on the tools, mainly due to the weather — all that cold, rain and mud aren’t conducive to outdoor exertions. But there’s been a particular task weighing on the old mind and today was the day allotted to completing it.

Remember the weeds in our lawn? Well, both lawn and weeds have responded enthusiastically to the soaking rain over the last few weeks and have burgeoned to the extent that the garden has taken on a distinctly shaggy look. A sort of COVID hairstyle but made of grass. And weeds.

The answer is to mow the lawn, not so? But there’s a hitch to this straightforward plan: our mower, inspiringly dubbed the ‘Pope Spitfire’, has languished in an unusable state for some time. Three months ago, we got it out and set to getting it started. Initial yanks on the starter cord yielded no gratifying roar – it did not spit fire. So of course, the pulls became more intense and ferocious until the cable obligingly snapped.

It’s not a difficult fix, but it hasn’t been a priority. And it’s one of those little tasks that you know won’t take long, so what’s the worry? I put a note in the mental diary for today: “fix lawnmower”, for which I estimated a generous 30 minutes’ effort.

First, a trip to the man who fixes lawnmowers. His workshop is alleged to be in a yard behind a bunch of other shops, so I arrived with the broken end of the cable in hand to source a replacement. I couldn’t find it. I asked a man at the store next door and he gave me a look that combined sympathy for my idiocy with sorrow for how far western civilization has fallen.
“Dunno about mowers mate, but I can sell you a bit of rope.”
Which he did.

Back at home it was obvious that our toolkit lacked the necessary specialty instruments for dismantling a Spitfire – to whit, a socket set, preferably with a spark plug doohickey (tech talk – sorry). So it was to the building supply store on the bike, killing the exercise bird and tool-buying bird with the same stone, so to speak.

There were no socket sets, but loose components were available, so – after some fortuitous finds in the bargain bin – the necessary kit was assembled. Job done, almost – right?

Well . . .  Of course not. It’s a simple task, remember – but also a very fiddly one. The top casing came off without a hitch. The motor was revealed in all its glory. Get a load of this, petrolheads!

The tricky part was that the rewind mechanism had to be held at tension – i.e. with its spring straining to whizz back at the speed of sound – while at the same time, the new cord had to be threaded through a hole in the housing and another in the winder gizmo and knotted firmly in place. It’s the kind of job that requires a minimum of three hands, which is unfortunate given the standard number allotted to most of us.

Help arrived in the form of a small wedge cut from a surplus bed slat (we’ll be climbing into the sack rather gingerly from now on). This held the rewind thingamajig in place, against the spring’s persistent efforts, while the tricky business of threading the cord took place. And here we came to the biggest hitch of all. It was really difficult: just like threading a needle, it required a steady eye, a steadier hand, and a cord stiff enough to be prodded through the narrow aperture.

It was too bendy; the aperture was too tight; the angle was tricky. Neurosurgeons require less dexterity, focus and patience. Repeatedly worming the cord through the first hole and into the second, over and over, came to naught: it declined with maddening indifference to do what it was told. Needle-nose pliers didn’t help; tweezers from the bathroom weren’t strong enough; an ingenious straightened-paperclip needle couldn’t bend in the right place.

Everyone knows that quote about madness lying in attempting the same thing over and over and hoping for a different outcome. We were in that very territory when at last the cord, for no discernible reason, made its way where it was needed and was firmly knotted in place. What joy to pull the wedge and have the spring whip the cord home.

It was now nearly dark. A few vigorous pulls on the new cord resulted in  . . . the realisation that there was still something wrong and all the day’s effort had achieved was to restore the damn thing to its pre-existing status of not working for undiagnosed causes.

What to do? There was nothing for it but to stash the Spitfire away and repair indoors to thaw out and enjoy a Meatless Monday dinner. Believe me, even to a staunch fan of animal flesh, this was a treat. First came warm, reviving veggie soup: carrot, sweet potato, cherry tomato, parsnip, Moroccan spices, fresh dill and chicken stock. Yum!

Then the pie: spinach, zucchini and onion with ricotta, feta and eggs; all encased in flaky filo pastry and seasoned with lemon, garlic and nutmeg.

Later, I’ll have a go at diagnosing the Spitfire’s problem via some skilful googling. For now, there’s a requirement for a digestive interlude. And tomorrow, the Spitfire shall bend to my will – the shaggy weeds cannot stand.