Staring at me from my desk is the staff id card for the job I walked out from in September. It’s about five years old. The photograph is a passport photo of me in my waterproof top, with three tee shirts and a jumper underneath to keep me warm whilst working outside in January. Even though I’m twenty five in the photo, I’d probably look about ten years younger if I wasn’t sporting a dodgy goatee ( the moustache and beard don’t quite meet on the right hand side, it almost looks like a letter C )
Over the five years I worked for the council, I didn’t do much grass cutting. The grass cutters were the highest paid members of the gardening team. Their hierarchy started at the bottom with the strimmer operators, the ride on operators were at the top. They used to sit on those machines with their chins up, like they were sat on a throne. They got paid about ninety pounds a day for it as well. The ride ons would get on site first,
swishing regally across the lawns then the strimmer operators would turn up to get all the awkward spots that were left behind.
Strimmers were unbelievably awkward and dangerous to use, you would get pebbles and stones fired into your legs all the time, and if you weren’t carefully you could get something nasty in your face. The other hazard was that the strimmer operators, who were always busting their arses to keep up with the prima donnas on the ride ons, would be leaving a trail of smashed patio doors and car windows in their wake. The unofficial staff policy was always this: if you get caught in the act, give them the number of head office, if not, act like it didn’t happen and get the hell off site.
Anyway, because of these incidents coming to public attention, the strimmer operators were asked to slow down and I would spend my mornings relieved of my horticultural duties, helping them to keep up with the ride on godfathers.
At first I was pissed off at doing someone else’s price work, but after a few weeks I not only got pretty good at strimming, I started to enjoy it. With the protective goggles and the ear plugs, I felt slightly removed from the world as I squeezed the throttle halfway down and guided the strimmer over patches of grass. It became quite a meditative exercise, and with my ear protection the roar of the two stroke engine began to sound like a Tibetan chant.
A week after I handed in my month’s notice, I was strimming round the border of the Acton Park play area. It was a mild late summer, early autumn morning. The low sun sent the shadows of the trees skirting far across the park, the abandoned swings and roundabouts lent a graceful air of melancholy to the scene. Christ, this is beautiful I thought to myself as I sank into a trance. Maybe I was wrong to leave this job, maybe a man needs a trade to really connect to the precious moments of his life. And that was when I lost concentration and strimmed a lump of dog shit.
It must have been a big lump because the thing exploded and sprayed all over me, all the way up my shirt, across my face and some of it went into my mouth. I had dog shit in my fucking mouth. Now, I’m sure an enlightened Zen master would’ve swallowed and carried on , but that was enough for me. I unhooked the strimmer, lobbed it onto the back of the van, marched back into the yard and spent the next half hour scrubbing and spitting. Then I did the rounds, shook everyone’s hand and walked out of that yard.
I felt pretty good, the sun was high, it looked like it was going to be another hot one. I thought about all the other people round the world who were also walking out on the job, the feeling I was sharing with them. Okay, I admit that I had some work lined up for the future, while other people who tell their boss to stick it don’t know what to do afterwards. Still, I bet the shit they were forced to eat was a bit more metaphorical than mine.