You Will NOT Chop Your Feet Off

14/03/24

Back in the 1970s and ’80s, when I was firmly within the target audience, public safety advertising aimed at children was absolutely terrifying.

One series of TV adverts showed children in various dangerous scenarios; playing on railway lines, flying a kite near electricity pylons, or precariously reaching out over running water to retrieve a ball.

The camera would pan to the black cloaked figure of Death, silently watching, then raising his skeletal finger to point at the unfortunate child.

A doom laden voiceover would intone appropriate warnings.

No railway lines, flying kites, or dangerous river reaching for me thanks.

Effective, but slightly traumatising.

In the rural community where I attended primary school, we were given extra bonus films, warning us of the dangers of farms and farm machinery.

They were graphic. Very graphic. Here’s what happens when an arm gets caught in a baling machine, type graphic.

Again, effective.

I never lost a limb in a thresher, nor did I fall into the silage pit. But, once again, somewhat traumatising.

One product of those early, overly dramatic warnings is that, even into adulthood, I’ve carried a real fear of mechanised garden equipment. Think hedge cutters, strimmers, lawnmowers, and their ilk.

I’ve particularly had an issue with lawnmowers, being utterly convinced I’ll cut through the electric wire and kill myself.

That, or the machine will run amok, cartoon style, cutting off my feet before careering through the fence to cause havoc at the neighbours’ barbecue.

Today I conquered that fear.

I’ll say that again, with added emphasis:

Today, all by myself, I conquered that fear.

The grass was getting stupid long. I’d mentally run through all the people I could potentially ask to cut it for me, but although I knew one or two would be happy to help, it wasn’t a long term solution.

The two long term options were to start paying a gardener or do it myself.

I opted for the latter.

I took every safety precaution I could think of, including wearing steel toe cap boots that used to be part of my work gear, and doing the windy thing with the cable, so it was looped over my shoulder and not trailing on the ground.

I sat and had a cup of tea, contemplating the lawnmower, and visualising how much better the garden would look once the grass had been cut.

I gave myself a stern talking to, pointing out that millions of people use lawnmowers (I could hear at least three right at that moment), and there’s not a continuous stream of news stories detailing horrifying accidents.

People routinely manage to mow their lawns without maiming or killing themselves. I’m a grown woman. I can do that too.

Then, I stood up, took a deep breath, and pressed the start button.

Within seconds I was laughing at myself for having been so unreasonably scared for so long. It really was an easy job to get done.

I’m extremely proud of myself. I could have stayed in the fear and paid someone else, but instead I faced down the fear and stood on my own two feet.

Real bravery isn’t about never being scared; it’s being scared but doing it anyway.

Another bit of independence claimed.

Go me!

JP