one man went to mow

In the long winter months, when nothing grows, I forget how much I hate mowing the grass.

They say wood warms you twice, once when you chop it and once when you burn it. I suppose grass is a bit like that; it breaks your back once when you mow it and once when you rake the cut grass. But the mowing is worst – an hour bent double, this must be how it felt rowing a Roman galley. Surely it is not beyond the wit of modern science to develop a mower that cuts grass when the handle is held more than 18 inches off the ground?

If I were an ancient Greek and cursed in Hades for offending Zeus, or a Catholic looking forward to 100 years in purgatory for my sins, surely this would be my fate: to mow the Elysian Fields while the Demi-Gods play.