Blinded by sheer dogged determination I would restart the Beast, occasionally discovering, with a sinking heart, the full grass box quivering on the back. The Beast seemed to chuckle at me, with each revolution counting the minutes to its next tantrum. If nothing else, I had learned one fundamental thing from its habits. And that was, any lack of observation to its moods compressed the grass cutting time before its final expiration. The scene must have been a constant source of amusement for my neighbour gazing on; fascinated by the drama unfolding before him. As I ponder those times, the only reliable attribute possessed by that machine, was the indication it gave when it approached the limit of its endeavours. My experienced ear had to pay severe attention to the tone of its engine. When it approached the previously mentioned limit, the Beast deviated from the acceptable arrhythmic beat to that of a violent tango. Any lack of attention on my part to this crucial point of the task, resulted in the smoking Beast's defiance to restart, and a tufted partially cut lawn.

On the majority of occasions, after finally tangoing into silence, the Beast's permanently blunt blades had usually chewed off the last of the long grass. It always raised the feeling in me that I wanted to lift my face to the heavens and cry out in triumph. When replacing it back in the garage, it seemed to seethe over its defeat; fuming and filling the garage with a burnt oily odour. My neighbour, peering over the wall, often portrayed a sense of amusement in his expression that confirmed in me again, the eccentric relationship that existed between me and the Beast.

After ensuring nothing would fall onto its scorching exhaust. I closed the door, pausing to gaze over the lawn displaying the neat lines of cut. More benevolent feelings often descended on me then as I pondered over how the old Beast had not made such a bad job.

Over the years I still amuse myself with thoughts of the confrontations I'd had with that old machine. But such moments of contemplation then were brief. As with all those lawn-cutting sessions, it concluded with an excursion around the local shops and a perusal through countless magazines. A new mower, however, was a long way in the future, and would not allow me the ultimate pleasure yet of sending the Beast up into that great lawn in the sky.

Now in more sober times, I contemplate over how we attach ourselves to inanimate objects, personifying them in a human aspect that we can relate to emotionally. I ponder; that perhaps in the future the Beast might be put into a huge melting pot and recycled into an appliance that I may buy, the thought persisting in me then that it might wreak a long awaited revenge on me in an untimely way. But I rationalise over how such thoughts are inconsistent with reality, and might lead to a generalised opinion that throws into question, ones presence of mind.

Copyright © Chris J Berry 2007. Adapted from Sixty Psychic Years by Chris J Berry.