One man went to mow...

When you're young, attentive and easily impressed by machines that either make a noise, cut or chop things, then watching your father or grandfather mow the lawn is a little like watching Geoff Capes pulling a lorry. In short, you're hugely impressed, it's a bit dangerous and you never think you'll be able to do it, although you're desperate to give it a go.

Now, 30-something years later, I know how my father and grandfather felt. Yesterday it dawned on me that the newly layed turf in our previously-concreted back garden had grown sufficiently to require a trim. So, having first assembled the lawn mower (itself a manly experience), I set about mowing the lawn.

Proudly strolling up and down the turf, trailing a wire behind me and ensuring that the noise of my machinery would go noticed by our neighbours (look at me, mastering the power of this actually rather underpowered suburban mower), I tamed the jungle that was our new lawn.

Assuming the role of Wembley groundsman, I attempted to mow neat lines in alternate directions in order to create a pitch fit for an FA Cup Final.

It was a proud moment and, as I finished by strimming the edges (requiring another suitably noisy piece of machinery) I stood back to admire my handiwork. My straight lines were a little wonky and I'd missed a couple of patches, but it looked good, I had a full bag of trimmings and the air was filled with the sweet smell of newly cut grass.

This was, I reflected, what it felt like to be a Dad.

I had mowed my lawn and one day my son or daughter may well watch me doing this with the same comforting sense of pride that I had done with my grandfather.

What next? Sorting the loft and climbing ladders perhaps?