skipping a beat

Our lawn is looking pretty grim at present, which I suppose is not surprising, since 2006 was the driest year in Tasmania for 100 years. Add to that an abundance of weeds that suck up any remaining goodness that lingers, and the poor old grass doesn't really stand a chance.

Frank is slowly working his way around the yard, removing the weeds with a crowbar. Some of the roots are knocking on half a metre long, with only slight exaggeration helping them grow to such lengths.

Tonight I discovered a mechanism for keeping the remaining weeds under control.

Skipping.

My real Christmas and birthday present is a brand spanking new bike, but we didn't go shopping in time, couldn't get a small enough bike without ordering it in, and are still waiting for the fine specimen to arrive. In lieu of the real present, Frank bought me a skipping rope.

Before you start wondering just what messages Frank is trying to give me, with a bike and a skipping rope - I requested the rope! Bouncing up and down, supple arms, toned legs, healthy heart, glowing skin, flowing hair, picture of health and happiness - I've always found the idea of getting fit by skipping to be rather appealing.

Until I tried it on a cement yard in London and it gave me shin splints.

That memory has obviously dimmed enough for me to revisit the whole jumping rope thing again. This time I'm skipping on the shrivelled lawn - softer than cement, though in the present dry clime, only just. I've discovered that if I sneak down to the back corner of the yard, there is a spot where nobody can see me. If I stay within the narrow parameters of the tree, fence and garage I am shielded from any neighbour's prying eyes and can skip with joyful abandon.

If only it were that easy. I am yet to discover the joyful abandon. No supple arms, strong legs, healthy heart or glowing skin. Just gasping breaths, tripping feet, aching knees, flopping hair and dripping forehead. My body betrays me, and it's all I can do to last for five minutes of activity, punctuated by frequent pauses to catch my breath and compose myself. I'm determined to work my way up to an unbroken ten minutes, but it may take me some time. I might also need to start taking glucosamine!

Back to our poor, sad lawn. The weeds are flowering. This is very bad, because flowers produce seeds, and seeds produce more weeds. It would be far more desirable to prevent such a progression if at all possible. And skipping solves the problem! With careful placement of the rope, I can whisk the flowers off their stems as surely as any scythe. No more flowers, no more seeds, no more weeds.

Only one problem - I have to move out of my secret skipping nook and expose myself to the world in order to cut off all the weeds...

Oh hang the weeds - the lawn doesn't stand a chance anyway! I think I'll stick to my corner and keep my uncoordinated skipping to myself. I will reach the bouncing, beautiful picture of health. I will.