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Flares considered harmful.
Nov. 9th, 2005 02:29 pmIt's the seventies. Summer. Blue sky, blue lionels, green grass... And a large, red, expensive tractor mower that belonged to the chap who owned the village of Charlton Abbotts.
Charlton Abbotts church (St. Martin's, Sudeley parish) is tiny. Two names are listed on the roll of honour. The churchyard looks down into the valley and has a terraced lower extension some six feet below the level of the rest of the area surrounding the church.
Since dad was churchwarden, it fell to him to mow the churchyard. This usually meant steaming around the easy bits with the large, red and expensive Wheel Horse driven down from the manor garages and then tidying up the fiddly parts with a walk-behind Hayter.
For whatever reason, he'd allowed me to pilot the tractor mower, so I gleefully navigated around the top half of the churchyard. Carefully avoiding both the gravel path and the marble corners of the larger plots. Eventually, I'd done all I could and needed to swap to the smaller mower. The tractor mower was pointing out downhill over the valley about two yards from the top of the terrace. I tugged the handbrake on, put the centre-mounted gearlever into neutral and swung one leg over the steering wheel to dismount.
I was wearing a particularly Southern Rock pair of flares.
They caught the gearlever and jammed the thing into first.
The large and expensive tractor mower lurched enthusiastically toward the six foot drop.
At times like that, everything really does stand still. The oversaturated green, the cloudless blue sky, the apple tree in the garden of our house across the valley. Self + father sliding on fresh grass cuttings as the tractor mower slowly won the tug of war and inched forward. The front wheels hit the ridgers on the terrace wall and bounced over easily. With a crunch, the chassis settled into them and stalled the engine.
There was a very loud kind of silence.
Dad favoured me with one of his special looks and indicated that I'd better get on with the rest of the job with the Hayter. At least if I had an accident with that, it would only be my fingers or toes and therefore nothing important.
After some struggling, he heaved it off the wall and drove it back up to the manor. We never spoke of the incident again.
I have never worn flares again (until recent 'boot cut' trouser-based innovations), nor have I driven a tractor mower.
Charlton Abbotts church (St. Martin's, Sudeley parish) is tiny. Two names are listed on the roll of honour. The churchyard looks down into the valley and has a terraced lower extension some six feet below the level of the rest of the area surrounding the church.
Since dad was churchwarden, it fell to him to mow the churchyard. This usually meant steaming around the easy bits with the large, red and expensive Wheel Horse driven down from the manor garages and then tidying up the fiddly parts with a walk-behind Hayter.
For whatever reason, he'd allowed me to pilot the tractor mower, so I gleefully navigated around the top half of the churchyard. Carefully avoiding both the gravel path and the marble corners of the larger plots. Eventually, I'd done all I could and needed to swap to the smaller mower. The tractor mower was pointing out downhill over the valley about two yards from the top of the terrace. I tugged the handbrake on, put the centre-mounted gearlever into neutral and swung one leg over the steering wheel to dismount.
I was wearing a particularly Southern Rock pair of flares.
They caught the gearlever and jammed the thing into first.
The large and expensive tractor mower lurched enthusiastically toward the six foot drop.
At times like that, everything really does stand still. The oversaturated green, the cloudless blue sky, the apple tree in the garden of our house across the valley. Self + father sliding on fresh grass cuttings as the tractor mower slowly won the tug of war and inched forward. The front wheels hit the ridgers on the terrace wall and bounced over easily. With a crunch, the chassis settled into them and stalled the engine.
There was a very loud kind of silence.
Dad favoured me with one of his special looks and indicated that I'd better get on with the rest of the job with the Hayter. At least if I had an accident with that, it would only be my fingers or toes and therefore nothing important.
After some struggling, he heaved it off the wall and drove it back up to the manor. We never spoke of the incident again.
I have never worn flares again (until recent 'boot cut' trouser-based innovations), nor have I driven a tractor mower.
