From High-Tech Gadgets to Humble Grit: Why My Rusty Old Lawn Mower—and Her Stubborn Heart—Means More…

People splash out on all sorts these days.
Fridges that announce when youve run out of milk.
Cars that scold you for every little misstep.
Garden gadgets priced higher than my old flats deposit.
Me?
Ive got a battered old lawn mowerpaint peeling, starter handle sulking, yet with the pluck of a badger.
She entered my world like most practical solutions doout of necessity and pure chance.
My ex, Philip, picked her up ages back for next to nothing at a jumble sale. It was when us was still a thing, when we thought happily ever after was possible and bills got paid before red letters arrived. When the split came, we divided what we could.
He drove off with the flashy things, the bits youd show off on social media.
I ended up with what actually kept life ticking over.
A collection of basic pots and pans.
The hoover that sounded as if it was coughing up its last breath.
And the mowerbecause grass doesnt grow slower when your purse gets lighter.
It wasnt sentiment that left me with her.
Just an empty wallet.
Then years passed as they tend to, reshaping meaning and memory.
Philips life slowly unravelled, not unlike an old jumper tugged one too many timesbad choices, wilder explanations, peculiar ideas. Id hear pieces of news from mutual friends, their voices cautious as if relaying bad news to avoid making it worse.
He lost the shiny things.
The status symbols.
The facade of having it all together.
Meanwhile, I kept the old mower.
And year by year, she and I muddled through.
Eleven years of me getting things done, on my own.
Eleven years of figuring out the fiddly, heavy, and awkward jobs without a partner.
Eleven years of fixing, improvising, making do.
Heres the thing: I dont have a fancy shed.
No insulated outhouse.
No neatly organised garage.
No proper home for her.
So she sits outside all year, living through whatever the English weather sends down.
English winters have their own brand of cruelty.
That damp cold that seeps into your bones.
Rain that creeps in and makes everything heavy.
Winds that turn umbrellas inside-out and make wheelie bins dance.
Each spring, half-expecting the worst, I approach her as if greeting an old friend who might have moved on.
I brush off dried leaves from her casing.
Dislodge the twigs from impossible spots.
Check the petrollike a nurse checking on a patient.
Then I press the primer buttonher little rubber heart.
It gives a modest squelch.
The smallest hint of hope.
Then its time.
I plant my feetsize five, not exactly gardening boots but theyll do.
Grip the handle.
Pull the starter cord.
Silence.
Pull again.
Nothing.
One more pull, and under my breath I send out a desperate plea to whoevers listening:
Not today. Please, not today.
Because if she doesnt start, it isnt just a nuisance.
Its a new worry for the budget.
A new thing to add to the growing list.
Another reminder that life has ways of tripping you up.
And thentaking offence at my doubt
she springs into life.
Loud and unapologetic.
With a ferocious clatter that declares:
Im not done yet. Come on then.
Every spring.
Eleven times now.
Through rain, sleet, frost, heatwaves, even the odd summer hailstorm, she rises to the challenge.
And every single time, this embarrassing, affectionate gratitude wells up in me.
Not just because shes cutting grass.
But because she stands as proof.
Proof that things can age, look battered, yet still show up and do what needs doing.
Proof that resilience isnt always pretty.
Proof that perseverance is more about grit than glamour.
People rarely talk about the quiet wins.
Theyd rather toast to big house moves, shiny cars, the glow-ups.
But sometimes, true victory is more modest:
A machine that stubbornly refuses to give up.
A woman who keeps moving forward, regardless.
A lawn trimmed becausewellsomeone had to get on with it.
Im fifty now.
My back grumbles more than it did.
My patience has frayed at the edges.
The budget is still more juggling than planning.
But every time that old mower grumbles into action, I stand there, daft grin and wild hair, hands tight on the handle, listening as she rattles and purrs like a bizarre sort of encouragement.
She doesnt know my story.
But shes made her mark on it.
So yes, I love my ancient mower.
Not for her looks.
But for her loyalty.
And in a world where so much seems uncertain, something steadfast is nothing short of miraculous.

If life has taught me anythingsometimes the greatest strength is to simply keep going, faithful and stubborn, no matter how weathered you become.