If you’re considering moving out of the city for a quieter life may I humbly suggest that you stay put. Yes, there’s less traffic and the silence at night is black and velvety. But the days…good grief, the days are a whole different ballgame.
When you don’t have concrete, you have grass. And when you have grass, you have to mow the stuff. And the good citizens of Fibrotown could mow for Australia. Well, in my block they could anyway.
I say block but I could say blocks. I can hear every mower start up within a 3K radius. There’s no other interference, you see, and not much competition to occupy the sound waves around here. I swear that there are residents of this area that are mowing daily. They must be. There’s no other explanation. If the grass grows a millimetre, they’re on it. Perhaps they’re practising lawn bowls in the backyard, who knows?
All I know is that the quiet of my days is shattered regularly by the throaty roar of a petrol mower and the whine of a whipper snipper. They start as early as 8am and last until dusk (that’s usually us, admittedly). In a strange phenomenon, you never hear two at once. It’s as though they can’t bear to challenge each others’ noise superiority. Like soul divas, each awaits their turn in the spotlight.
The only consolation is that the blower is not in fashion in these parts. The preferred method of clean-up is the mower with catcher and the good old-fashioned rake.
All I’m saying is that the grass may be greener on the other side of the fence – but there’ll be someone waiting there to cut it.