It started with my immediately recognising the advantages of not having to patch together half a dozen extension leads when we were trying to get things done at the far-flung extremities of my sprawling half-acre.
We were also a little nonplussed at how easily my admittedly ancient, vicious, 10-inch circular saw could shred its 240-volt cable during moments of operator inattention. In any case, the first step on the cordless journey was taken when my line trimmer carked it. It was a good unit: two-stroke, like all the best small motors, and while it might’ve billowed out a little more smoke than was fashionable, that particle-rich cloud had a velvety texture that’s just not seen these days.
Modern technology is all very well, but you can’t replace lead-based compounds and unburnt oil in suspension for a deep lungful of 1970s nostalgia. And that hard-revving, high-frequency scream as the little piston ran at what felt like an insane 15,000 or so revs for an hour or so at a time? Aural bliss. The inner-ear chiming always lasted for an hour or so after I’d packed up, and, in recognition of the situation, we called that little whipper-snipper ‘The Lord Of The Ring’.
But all good things must come to an end, and, possibly driven by some unkind remarks from the proprietor of the local mower shop regarding the definition of ‘regular’ when applied to maintenance, we decided to go electric. Not being overly knowledgeable about such things, we purchased a very low-cost unit. we didn’t want to make a big financial commitment to something which may not have been terribly effective. we got what we paid for. It was like walking along my driveway and gently caressing the kikuyu with a strand of used dental floss. But we could see the potential. We didn’t have to pull-start the thing, there was no fuel to mix, and it was fairly quiet. It didn’t damage the garden hose during an accidental entanglement, and, after all, we had a battery now. So back we went to the hardware store and bought the next-level-up trimmer.
A weed-whacking 36-volt unit we dubbed ‘The Edgeterminator’. We had to buy another battery because it ran two, but that seemed reasonable. It was okay – better than the first one, but we knew we hadn’t yet uncovered the object of my crusade. Finally, eyes downcast and trying to seem like we didn’t feel guilty or humiliated, we went back to the mower shop and asked if there were any cordless line trimmers in stock. Were there ever!
We walked out clutching a 60-volt monster which we was almost certain would be the fulfilment of my search. The Lord Of The Ring had gone.
This one, we were sure, was The Precious. It was the one to rule them all. At the first touch of the trigger the damn thing was like high-powered boat outboard with the throttle stuck wide open hanging from my shoulder. It latched onto the first clump of Sir Walter Buffalo and near threw me over the fence. As we tried to wrestle some level of control it shredded the toe of my Blundies, veered violently off in a shallow arc across the lawn and started to rip chips out of the edge driveway.
By the time I’d gathered the wit to release the trigger there was a sizeable brown curve etched into the otherwise pristine yard and a serrated edge on the concrete. We gazed in disbelief at the scene. My brain struggled to process what had just happened. We stared vacantly, totally overawed, drew a deep breath, then let out a primal howl of deep, visceral satisfaction. In those few seconds we were converted to cordless electric power.