“And the rain hammered down, and the rain it hammered down,” sang Nick Cave in his song ‘The Carny’ from 1986.
It’s an eight-minute mournful treatise set to a funereal fairground waltz (if that’s not really selling it too well, it’s better than my description makes it sound, honestly), which basically sums up the last couple of weeks of our “summer” and, for me, began a battle with the grass in our back garden.
Actually scratch that, it was a battle with the rectangular section of our garden covered completely in weeds.
It had grown so long by the beginning of last week due to my inability to get it cut thanks to never-ending-downpours, that there was even some weird looking little mini-tree thing that had sprouted out of nowhere.
I finally managed to cut it a week past Monday and then in a desperate bid to conquer mossageddon, sprinkled an entire boxful of weed killer stuff over it, which said on the instructions to leave for at least three or four days.
So come Saturday, I hatched the perfect garden-conquering plan for the non-green fingered.
What I’d do was watch the Switzerland v Poland match at 2pm, rake up the black patches where the weeds have died after it finished, just before the Wales v N Ireland match then cut the grass after that one. Ha! In yer face, world.
Then Switzerland v Poland went to extra time. OK, I’ll rake at HT during the Wales match. Then my children not unreasonably began to wonder if they were going to be fed at some stage. Darn it, they weren’t part of the equation. So now that HT was not an option, a quick rake at FT then, just before Croatia v Portugal?
No. The rain it hammered down. FT Weeds 1 Me 0.