The Claw

This evening I decided to have another bash at the lawn, and went to ask my neighbour if he had any shears that I could borrow. After rooting around in his cellar, he came back with half a lawnmower and some cobwebbed, rusted shears. He then went back into the cellar and returned waving a hedge strimmer. I was certainly excited by the prospect of wielding something that looked like a chainsaw. I would definitely remove a lot of grass with it – it wouldn’t stand a chance! – but I’d probably end up taking a few limbs with it. The rest of the lawnmower failed to appear, so it was the antique shears. He’d been very generous in searching and so I felt I had to at least give them a try.

So back to the garden and I got stuck in. They weren’t great, but on most occasions they did manage to chop through the grass at the first attempt. Which was a definite improvement on what had gone before. I soon got carried away with it and must have done about 30 minutes steady chopping. Stopping for a rest and to assess my handiwork, I tried to let go of the shears…uh oh. My hands, particularly the right, had locked themselves into the gripping position around the handles. I managed to slide the handle from my fingers but my right hand remained in the same position, and was also shaking. My left hand quickly began to recover its normal flexibility, but the right remained a gnarled, withered claw. I’d given myself a Beadle hand!



What further gardening adventures await?