He undid his waistcoat. He took off his shoes and knee-length socks. He was a peculiar fellow. Full to the brim with idiosyncrasies, refreshing to all those who knew him. He unbuttoned his floral shirt and allowed the cooling breeze to breathe coolly over his supple chest. His abdominal hairs thanked him for it. Chiming in, his homeostatic glands heaved a sigh of immense relief. Right on, he thought. Time to get going.
The lawnmower thrummed along in the way a metaphor might if it had been whimsically thrown together by some poet-turned-prose-writer in order to cheaply embellish a benign sequence of events. Thrum thrum thrum. Imagine me reading this to you, in a husky, emotionless voice, devoid of regional accent but plodding along with heavy diction and unwaveringly dull intonation. Just like that. Plod plod plod. Trisyllabic sentences thrill me. Just like lawnmowing / mowing the lawn.
Atop his thistle-guzzling, blandly alliterative throne, the man felt like a god. He listened to its various churns and kthumps with blind glee. The noises gave him an enormous sense of wellbeing, which welled up inside him, thence effusing from his throat in spits, gargles and other gross onomatopoeias.
Across the way, the man’s neighbour, Kevin McCloud, was mowing his lawn. How serendipitous, thought the man. What a charming coincidence that Kevin and I – two men, two gung-ho, strapping men, riding on a wave of exuberant gusto – should be mowing our adjacent lawns simultaneously. I’ll wave, and he’ll wave back, and we’ll each of us erupt into a momentary ecstasy. We’ll break the mould and whack a big two fingers up to the conservative establishment for instilling within us a sense of guardedness and perpetual reservation. We’ll shake off the doleful glare of infinite negation cast onto us by the paranoid and paranoia-inducing shells of former humans, once shimmering with individual phosphorescence, now damned to monochromatic insularity and choking restricti– oh blast I’ve mown right into the hedge.