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Harry raged a constant battle against the grass. He wanted it to know its place - downtrodden under his feet. Every week he got out the mower and cut it back to size. He ruthlessly removed it from his borders, sprayed it with poison on his patio. But the grass grew greener and bided its time.
As Harry grew older and arthritic, the grass realised its strength and the worm turned. Harry took to his bed, as did the grass. It felt its way through the soil and coiled up between his petunias. It insensitively self-seeded amongst his nasturtiums and pushed paper-thin leaves up between his paving slabs. As Henry vegetated, the grass grew another few millimetres just to spite Harry, sticking its fingers up at him as it went, knowing retribution was in the past.
Eventually, Harry withered away and became God’s gardener in the sky. The grass, thinking it had won, danced on his grave. But, though Harry might have died, he was not yet gone for good. He had one more trick up his sleeve. From six feet under, he began to push up daisies. That would show the grass who was boss.
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