The congealed cocktail of moss, grit and gunk living a life of filthy luxury on our concrete patch (alternatively known as a 'patio' if you're an estate agent rather than a normal human with eyes) did not know what had hit it. It was the horticultural equivalent of Pearl Harbour. Moss was visably shaken as it was swept away by the almighty combo of broom and hose, forced to seek refuge down the drain near the decking. This was no flash-in-the-pan battle, no firing across bows; it was a war of attrition, but you can't simply give up when armed with a thick-bristled durable rake and heavy duty gardening gloves. It would be a crime against masculinity. Geoff Capes would rock up to your gaff, give you two dead arms and neuter you as punishment.
Sweat, testosterone, mud and grime was whipped up in a fury of frenzied brooming and scrubbing (sporadically punctuated with lapses of activity as I re-attached the broom head - cheers hardware store) until the concrete area was left spotless. The last fleck of moss only had to be glared at and it sacrificially threw itself from the wall into the bucket, rather than face the might of my broom.
And why this flurry of activity, all of a Sunday morning? Well how apt it is that this most masculine of tasks was to facilitate another of the male's most proud rituals - the BBQ. The area is now clear for what next week will be another manfest, only this time involving meat, crisps and beer. I can almost smell the testosterone.
If it doesn't rain.
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