Today is my brother's 51st birthday. He got a lawnmower. The last time I lived in a home with a lawn was 25 years ago, and then you could have trimmed it with scissors. Since then I have lived in apartments on anything between the 2nd and 21st floors. One day we'll return to our house in Chichester with its lawn out the back, and I'll have to mow it.
Which reminds me, I once had a big tupperware container full of grass, freshly cut from the hallowed turf of Wembley Stadium. I was art-directing a photograph of a white line, for an exhibition on football, as you do. Could have chosen a pitch anywhere, Wormwood Scrubs say, but it had to be perfect, so Wembley it was. The art-direction bit consisted of me saying "That one". But the grass was a bit long, so they brought on a massive lawnmower and for some reason I kept the cuttings. It sat in a cupboard for a year until it took on the appearance of Christmas tree needles. (I used to have a box of them too). And then I threw it away.