I am trying to work out how long, on average, I spend staring through this window per week.  I sit at my computer and, lost for anything to relate, idly stare into the distance – most particularly these days stewing over the loss of that particular utility – whilst I grope around in my brain in order to find a path to follow.  Today I sit perched upon the very sharpest tip of a horn of a dilemma: the combination of Weed & Feed, seasonal showers and rising temperatures means that my lawns are growing faster than my general disillusionment and in the distance I can see the rainclouds gathering.  How long can I decently sit here, watching the ingress of the gathering nimbostratus whilst ignoring the grass which is now peeping out above the first-floor windowsill?

At times it is clear that the clouds are going to arrive within a timescale that would make the opening of the shed futile, but at other times it is obvious that the failure to do so will inevitably lead to accusations of incipient laziness.  It is a fine balance.  If I decide against the gardening, placing my chips defiantly on ‘precipitation’, will I be able to write or will I have to devote my time to concocting a reasonable explanation for my torpor, in the certain knowledge that, however logical it sounds to me, it will not cut the mustard as far as my wife is concerned?  If I opt to write, then what about; cutting mustard?  Who cuts mustard anyway?  (Apparently, since you ask, and since answering takes me away from the mowing dilemma for a few precious moments, in days of yore the East Anglian mustard crops grew to a height of six feet and were harvested with scythes which, when blunt, were ineffectual as they did not cut the mustard.)  It requires a decision and such things do not come easily to me.

So I stare.  For forty years past I have stared out on fields and buzzards, hares and peewits, deer and foxes, but now I stare out on JCB’s and dumpsters, mud and aggregate, bricks and mortar (of the walloping great housing estate as described by the ubiquitous Mr Underfelt.)  Should I opt for mowing, we (my little mower and I) will be looked down upon by a leviathan digger and a man in a fluorescent gilet.  I will wave in greeting as I always do and will be roundly ignored by the hi-viz driver.  (I have learned that these drivers never respond, not even to the grandkids, not even during breaks.  Perhaps there are a few hundred words to be eked out on the psychology of small men in giant machines.)  Soon, presumably, I will be in a position to stare, Rear Window-like, down upon a neighbour’s back garden and my imagination will be triggered by what it sees there (until, presumably, the police put a stop to it).

Of course, I am not fully certain of the configuration of the new-builds – plans are about as useful to me as gauntlets for Braille readers – and it may well be that I will actually stare out only to see another face staring back at me, separated by just the distance of my scant few metres of un-cut lawn.  What sort of impression would that give?

And so, finally, the decision becomes an easy one.  Such a shame that it’s started to rain…